


Advent Calendar 2017

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: The English job [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Alternate Universe, Christmas Party, Crack, Established Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Not Season/Series 04 Compliant, Omegaverse, One Shot Collection, Potterlock, Smut, Spanking, Teenlock, Unilock, balletlock, male lingerie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-09 05:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 41,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12881499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: My Advent Calendar, 25 one shots from 1st to 25th December, Christmas-ish themed, updated daily.Each story has its own rating.





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Mistletoe, or why kissing under a parasitic plant is a terrible idea  
> Johnlock - Crack - First kiss - Rating G
> 
> Hello y’all. I decided to try my hand at the Advent Calendar also this year, so from now until December 25th, I’ll keep you company every day with a short one shot, if you want.  
> The stories of this collection are mostly Johnlock with some Mystrade, ranging from fluff, to comedy, smut, angst (not too much), and there are very few references to S4 (it’s not a secret that I didn’t like it), so mostly AU and what if. Rating is different for each story and will be pointed out in the notes.  
> Not beta-ed, all errors are mine (and if you please point out them, I’ll correct).
> 
> I took the prompts from these three lists, in strict scattered order:  
> [1](http://verobird.tumblr.com/post/153891387911/christmas-prompts-some-i-made-up-some-i-took) \- [2](http://sserpente.tumblr.com/post/153264984437/lets-christmas-shall-we) \- [3](https://roquentine19.tumblr.com/post/153761991438/welcome-to-our-seasonal-fucking-cheer-2016)

It's a bad idea.

He will loathe it.

He will not even understand.

What was he thinking?

It's not too late, he can still go back.

He can throw away the little mistletoe branch and pretend nothing happened.

Or maybe he’s getting ahead of himself.

Maybe it will not end badly.

Maybe he might even like it.

Maybe he can risk hanging the mistletoe over the front door.

No.

He's talking about Sherlock.

The same Sherlock who doesn’t remember the birthday of his parents.

He will hate the mistletoe.

He will set it on fire or use it for some experiment.

But he’s talking about the same Sherlock who has surprised him in a thousand ways, on a thousand different occasions, so he might surprise him again.

He will love the mistletoe.

He will blush, biting his lower lip and closing his eyes, waiting for the kiss.

John raises the mistletoe branch in front of his face for the umpteenth time: the poor thing has already lost some leaves, being continuously pulled out and put in the bag.

One thing is sure, the doctor thinks looking at himself in the mirror: he’s behaving like an idiot.

A week ago, John had an enlightening conversation with his sister, who has gently suggested him to pull his head off his ass, to finally acknowledge his feelings and do something, quickly, because,  _ good grief John, how many times will you wait until it's too late? _

John answered her, in a equally well mannered way, to mind her fucking business, but then he thought about it for a long time, for the first time honest with himself, and he realized that yes, he was in love with Sherlock, and for a long time.

From that moment on, he began to think how to make Sherlock understand his feelings. Of course, the simplest thing would be to tell him, but it's not like him (not like them), so John opted for that madness: a kiss under the mistletoe, taking advantage of the fact that Christmas is approaching.

He stood still in front of the florist's shop window for long enough to alarm the owner before deciding to buy it, but when he returned home, he was still skittish and unsure about it.

"It's not a stupid idea, is it?" he asks the skull that looks at him from the mantelpiece. "I mean, it’s not too stupid, right?"

A glance at his watch reveals that Sherlock will be home soon, and he must hurry up.

He makes up his mind, climbs up a chair, hangs the mistletoe over the front door, rubs his face and waits there: he doesn’t want to give Sherlock the time to deduce what's going on, he will kiss him and wait for his reaction.

Presuming he has a reaction.

Maybe a different one from repeating:  _ "I'm flattered by your interest, but I consider myself married to my work." _

After all, it was years ago, and in the meantime things between them have changed, right? Right?

There’s no time to panic anymore, because the door opens and Sherlock is in front of him.

John is not as quick as he hoped for, because Sherlock's lips open in genuine astonishment.

He has already understood his intentions, then.

And he didn’t run away screaming, which John considers a success, so much that he feels his eyes sting with emotion.

Holy cow, since when he has become so sentimental? They haven’t kissed yet and he feels like crying.

"Oh my god, John!" Sherlock grabs his face in his hands.

Uh, he wanted to initiate the kiss, but if Sherlock wants to take the initiative, he won’t argue.

"We must immediately call an ambulance!"

"W-what?"

Sherlock drags John in front of the mirror: his face has an alarmingly shade of red and his eyes aren’t watering with emotion, but because they’re swollen and itch like hell.

"Your hands too," Sherlock exclaims, taking them in his. "Are you allergic to anything? Mmh, should be something new, but what? Ah..."

He sees the mistletoe over the door, takes it off (without needing a chair, the damn giraffe) and throws it into the waste bin, where John's romantic dreams also go.

If nothing else, Sherlock walks him to the A&E and waits with him, even though he spends all the time with his nose sticking to the screen of his phone and doesn’t say a word. Whatever he is looking for, he’s so focussed that he doesn’t even ask John why there was a mistletoe branch in their flat.

Or maybe he deduced it already and that's his way to tell him he’s not interested.

The doctor tries to hide the disappointment behind a sigh: after all he has said that it was a stupid idea.

 

After a cortisone injection, John feels better (at least from a medical point of view), the skin rash has disappeared, and he’s ready to go home, get drunk and forget that day.

Sherlock is waiting for him in the square in front of the hospital, with his arms behind his back.

"Haven’t you call a taxi?"

Sherlock clears his throat and doesn’t move, like he has something to say, and John isn’t sure he wants to deal with certain issues after four hours of waiting at the A&E.

"Sherlock, I'm quite tired."

"We know you can’t stay close to the real one. I didn’t find anything about it on the Internet, but I was wondering if a virtual surrogate would be fine to respect the tradition," he spits out at lightspeed, and only after that he breaths.

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

Slowly, Sherlock shows him his phone: there’s the picture of a mistletoe on the screen.

John holds his breath while Sherlock raises the phone over their heads and whispers: "Is it okay?"

"Wonderful," John murmurs, then grabs the lapels of his coat and pulls, and finally kisses him  with a triumphant smile.


	2. 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2\. Pretend boyfriend/girlfriend for family Christmas party  
> Johnlock - Omegaverse - Teenlock - Rating G - Not triggering, but with some hints of sexism, typical of this ‘verse - Pro choice attitude

John looked at his wristwatch for the umpteenth and drummed his fingers on the table: where the hell was Sherlock? The lunch break was about to end and he didn’t show up, even though he promised they would eat together. After all, it was Sherlock the one who told him he had to talk about something important.

It wouldn’t have been a surprise if the young omega was still in the chemistry classroom, focussed on some strange experiment, and had lost track of time.

John put some fruits on a plate and decided to take it to his friend, seeing how little Sherlock cared about eating and looking after himself in general.

Their schoolmates teased them, saying that they seemed like an old married couple, even without the Bond.

Which would never happen, by the way, because Sherlock had no intention of binding himself to anyone and openly hated alphas. Why the two of them had become best friends, John still didn’t understand.

Perhaps, he thought as he walked through school corridors, it was because he respected Sherlock's will and accepted his decisions on the subject, however unpopular they were.

While the other omegas of their same age did everything to be noticed by alphas, he kept himself aloof, showing to the world a cruel facade and keeping people at bay with his sharp tongue.

However, John had been able to look beyond that facade, discovering a special, intelligent and charismatic boy with a strong sense of humor.

The chemistry classroom was locked and a strange, unpleasant smell came from under the door, so much that John walked a few steps away and opened a window to take a breath of fresh air, then stopped a student who was walking by.

"Did you see Sherlock?"

"Holmes? He's in detention."

"Again?"

Generally omegas were quiet, tame on the verge of submission, and many people made the mistake of believing that Sherlock was like that, but it wasn’t true. Sherlock was untamed and good with his fists, so he ended up in detention as often as alphas.

"And it will be a long thing: this time he made a mess."

This wasn’t new, either. Luckily it was the last day of school before Christmas holidays and this would prevented Sherlock from causing more trouble.

"What did he do?"

"He created a sort of anti-aggression spray to use on alphas and some student felt sick after inhaling it."

John headed to the principal's office and waited outside the door. He heard voices inside and strained his ear.

"I told you it was an accident, I didn’t do it on purpose." This was Sherlock.

"Your tone of voice is not the one of a sorry person."

They were giving him a lecture: yes, it would be long.

"That substance is harmless, in a few hours they'll be fine again."

"You're a smart boy, Holmes, but you should use your intelligence to get ready for the life waiting for you outside the school."

"That's what I'm doing."

"No alpha will approach you if you continue to maintain this deplorable aggressive attitude."

"That’s what I wish."

"Holmes, I'm serious: you will never have a family at this rate."

"Maybe I have other goals in life."

"An omega shouldn’t talk like that."

"Perhaps you regret what the world was like seventy years ago, but I don’t."

John clenched his fists: seventy years ago, omegas finally conquered the same rights that alphas and betas had, whereas before they were relegated to the role of factors and mares and had limited access to work and education. Unfortunately, some people still regret the old times.

John heard the principal sigh, "You're hopeless, Holmes," and then let him go.

"Oh, you're here John, perfect," Sherlock said as soon as he saw him.

"I know what happened: will you have problems?"

The boy shrugged.

"Another stain on my personal file, I suppose."

John handed him an apple: "Here, I bet you don’t eat anything since this morning."

"Since last night: that chemical formula kept me awake all night."

John looked at his watch.

"Look, I know you wanted to talk to me at lunchtime, but now I have rugby training. Can we meet after that?"

"I'll wait for you at the school gate."

 

Sherlock was waiting for him in front of a taxi and John frowned.

"Uh... are you going somewhere?"

"We are going."

"What?"

"Get in the car, I'll explain you on the way."

Used to his friend's eccentricity, John didn’t ask anything else.

Sherlock gave the taxi driver the address of his house.

"Did something happen?"

"It's going to happen," Sherlock said in a tremendously serious voice, "and I need your help. Tonight there will be a Christmas party at my house with all my relatives and I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend."

John gaped at him for a few seconds, assimilating his words, then croaked a "WHAT?" in a choked voice.

"John, please, you know I hate to repeat myself: you have to pretend to be my boyfriend tonight."

"Are you crazy?" John flushed: he did everything to keep it hidden, because Sherlock hated relationships, but the truth was that he liked the omega a lot, and not just as a friend. He feared that Sherlock would quickly find out that John's feelings were far beyond fiction.

"I've never been so lucid."

"Why should I do that?"

"My parents and my brother accept me as I am, but the rest of the family doesn’t: they think that a omega must necessarily marry and take care of the family; every Christmas they pressure me, and it’s becoming worse: the more I grow up, the more they insist, and they bring with them some alphas looking for a mate. Dealing with them is exhausting, I can’t do it anymore."

"Sherlock..."

"Some of those alphas have a harem."

John shuddered: although many couples of alpha and omega were monogamous nowaday, some traditionalist families still held dear the archaic tradition of a harem of omega and beta.

"I understand, but..."

"They will keep pressuring me, unless I give them a reason to let it go. Please John: you're the only one who can help me."

He looked at him with his big sad eyes, and John knew he had capitulated even before he opened his mouth.

"Okay, I’ll do."

Sherlock sighed in relief and smiled.

"But you could have told me before, at least I would have changed! I still wear the rugby uniform."

"The uniform is one of the things I love about my boyfriend," Sherlock murmured, and John's heart sped up, before he remembered that Sherlock was just playing a role.

"Do I have to open the car door? Or hold your hand?" John asked when he arrived at the Holmes Manor: he had never seriously courted an omega belonging to a high-ranking family like Sherlock’s and he didn’t know the etiquette.

Sherlock shook his head.

"My parents knows that I can’t stand formalities, they don’t expect our relationship to be a traditional one."

"What about the others?"

"They can go to hell."

Despite being very nervous, John chuckled in amusement: he liked Sherlock's cheekiness.

He liked many things about him, he thought with a sigh.

In the garden there were three large, richly decorated Christmas trees and even the facade of the Manor was adorned with lots of fairy lights: the Holmeses were larger than life.

Mycroft was sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette. Sherlock entered the house pretending not to see him, instead John raised his hand to greet him.

"Ironic," Mycroft murmured.

"What?" John asked, stopping by.

"I was referring to Sherlock's decision to choose you as a fake boyfriend."

Of course, Mycroft had understood everything instantly: Sherlock's older brother's intelligence sometimes scared him. Fortunately, he didn’t seem he wanted to expose their bluff: John believed that, in a very twisted way, Mycroft really liked his younger brother.

"And why would it be ironic?"

"Is it really fiction?" Mycroft asked, out of the blue.

"I-I..."

"As I thought."

"John!" Sherlock called him, and John was happy to get away. Shit, was it so obvious? Then maybe Sherlock too had understood... he looked in the direction of the omega, but a man came to meet them.

"Sherlock, finally! I was going to send someone to look for you."

"Uncle Dave," Sherlock greeted him, listlessly.

"Come to the dining room: there are some people you must meet."

Instinctively, John didn’t like the way that man talked to Sherlock: 'people you must meet',  _ 'must' _ , as if the will of his friend to want to meet them or not didn’t matter.

"You too.” Sherlock took John by the arm and pushed him toward his uncle. “Uncle Dave, meet John Watson, my boyfriend."

"W-what?" The man stammered, taken aback. He sniffed the air and felt the unmistakable smell of alpha emanating from John, then he smacked his lips with disappointment. "Aunt Agnes and Aunt Josephine moved mountains to convince some of those alphas to be here."

"Their problems, not mine."

"Your mother told you that during this dinner there would be pretenders: you should have told us that someone else had chosen you."

"No, I didn’t have to: what I do and who I date are only my business. Come on John, let's go to say hello to my parents."

John moved to follow him, but Dave held him by the arm.

"Are you serious with Sherlock?"

"Yes!" John answered proudly, looking at him with hostility: he liked the man less and less, and now he understood why Sherlock absolutely needed a fake boyfriend.

"Well, then start doing something for that rebellious behaviour of him, and teach him to behave like a omega."

John freed himself from his grip by shrugging his shoulders.

"Sorry, but I agree with Sherlock. Oh, and for your information, he is the one who chose me," he proclaimed with great satisfaction, seeing the other man's shocked face.

"John, dear! Merry Christmas.” Mrs. Holmes met and hugged him “Sherlock just told me... why did you keep it secret?” She asked with a slight note of reproach in her voice, and John lowered his eyes.

"You know, it just happened..." John murmured. He was sorry to lie to Sherlock's parents, even if it was for a good cause, because they were lovely people.

"I see. Anyway I am very happy for you: since the first time I saw you, I realized that you two were made for each other."

"Thank you."

To some extent it was true: he and Sherlock got along splendidly, they soon became best friends, and since the omega normally couldn’t stand anyone, it was almost a miracle.

In the dining room, the rumour that the youngest Holmes had an official boyfriend had spread quickly: several alphas looked at them with annoyance and disappointment and the two boys were under the spotlight immediately.

John was seated next to Sherlock of course, but two alphas, female and male, sat in front of him, and did everything to get Sherlock’s attention, boasting about their respective wealth.

However Sherlock didn’t show any interest, looking at his phone and answering them only if he really had to.

"Watson…” said the alpha woman looking at him defiantly “Your surname doesn’t ring a bell to me. Tell me, in what branch does your family work: politics, oil, mines?"

"No, my parents are just employees. As for me I would like to become an army doctor."

The alpha male sitting in front of him made no effort to hide a laugh. "And how do you think you will support the young Holmes? Judging from his clothing only, it’s clear that he has expensive tastes."

"I will support myself," Sherlock interjected without looking up from the phone.

"Oh, I don’t doubt that with your intelligence you could manage to get far, but didn’t you think about how Watson would feel, if you earn more than him?"

For the first time since the beginning of that nightmare in the form of Christmas dinner, Sherlock looked up from the phone and looked at John with a hint of uncertainty, but the young alpha smiled and squeezed his hand in a reassuring way: some alphas thought it was humiliating if the omega worked and earned more than them, but he wasn’t like that.

"I don’t care," Watson replied, without taking his eyes off Sherlock, and the omega smiled.

"Nah, I don’t buy it," the female alpha said.

"Watson here is very clever,” a third alpha said. “He talks like that because he knows that this is an unreal hypothesis. Holmes will be busy full time to look after their children and will not work, after they will be married."

"I don’t want children," Holmes sighed annoyed, having had dealt with that topic too many times.

"These youngers and their ideas... a omega is a omega for a very specific reason." The female alpha shook her head in disappointment, looking at Sherlock as if he had just offended her with his opinion.

"Ah, leave him alone” said the first male alpha. “When he will have children, he will change his mind."

"I will not change my mind because I-will-not-have-children," Sherlock said quietly, not hiding his growing irritation.

"Are you sure you're okay with such a selfish omega?" The alpha asked John, completely ignoring Sherlock.

"It's not selfish!” John exclaimed, “He simply has his opinions about his own life, it’s right that he want to decide what to do with it."

"I don’t agree: some omegas need a strong push in the right direction to understand how to behave. Thus, if they stumble and fall when pushed, then learn how to correct their behaviour. I don’t care what all those egalitarian hippies out there say, I think a family should work that way" said the third alpha.

The eyes of the other two alphas told exactly the same story: that if Sherlock had belonged to them, they would never have allowed him to have a say in his own life and would have bent him to do what they wanted, even with violence.

John felt Sherlock's hand tremble under his, and decided that enough was enough: those three shouldn’t even look at Sherlock or talk to him, they were unworthy.

Christ, Sherlock had to deal with this crap every Christmas dinner? Had to bear to be treated like an inflatable doll whose will didn’t count at all? Threatened by retrograde sexists? It didn’t surprise him that he hated everyone and that, in particular, he hated family gatherings and parties.

"What you think it doesn’t matter, because it works for us," John growled, then grabbed Sherlock by the back of his head and kissed him on the mouth: a sweet, gentle but passionate kiss. He wanted to reassure him, to tell him that he was perfect the way he was, that he shouldn’t become a ordinary omega, and that he could do whatever he wanted in his life, but the warmth that John infused in that kiss left no doubt about his true feelings.

When their lips parted, Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes, as if there was a stranger in front of him, and John felt guilty: he had taken advantage of his role of fake boyfriend to take something that didn’t belong to him, and did something that probably had disgusted Sherlock.

Right now he just wanted to kneel in front of him and apologize, but before there was one more important thing to do: to take Sherlock away from those horrible people; he stood up and held out his hand, which Sherlock grabbed mechanically, still shocked from the kiss, and they walked away.

John nodded a brief apology to Sherlock's parents and brother, and Mycroft waved a hand as if to say that he would deal with it.

As soon as they were outside the Manor, in a secluded corner of the garden, John let go of his hand and lowered his head, mortified.

"Forgive me Sherlock, I don’t know what got into me... I know it's not an excuse, I did something horrible."

"No," Sherlock whispered, running a finger across his lips. "It wasn’t a bad kiss. I think. I have no terms of comparison, but it wasn’t an unpleasant experience."

He had stolen his first kiss. John wanted to sink into the underworld and never re-emerge again.

"Shit!" John swore, and Sherlock frowned: "Do you always react like that after kissing someone? Then it surprises me that you got the nickname of 'Three Continents'."

"Don’t joke: I behaved exactly like those three bastards, I kissed you without asking your permission, I treated you as you belong to me."

"It's not true!” Sherlock retorted, heated. “You supported me, you said I'm free to decide what to do with my life, and no one had ever done this for me."

John shook his head: "This doesn’t justify me, I shouldn’t have kissed you, not that way."

This made it clear that John would be happy to kiss Sherlock with his consent, but by now he was sure his feelings were obvious.

Sherlock bowed his head, looking at the tip of his shoes and mumbled something so low that John didn’t understand and asked him to repeat.

"I said I liked it."

"You're just trying not to make me feel guilty, but you hate alphas! You even invented a spray to keep them at bay."

"Not all alphas: I would never use it on you," Sherlock said, raising his head and looking straight at John.

"Sherlock..."

The omega moved toward him, slow but determined, and finally bent his head on John's shoulder, showing him his cervical vertebrae, the gesture that a omega made when he accepted an alpha and let him sink their teeth during the Bond.

But it was early for that, too early, and it wasn’t Sherlock's intentions: the omega just wanted to show him that he considered John different from all the other alphas, and that one day...

"You're the only one, and I want our fake engagement to become true" Sherlock whispered.

"Yes, yes sure, it's a privilege."

John hugged him, laying a cheek on his soft curls and closed his eyes.


	3. 3.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3\. You should really take off that seasonal jumper and/or hat and/or pair of shoes  
> Johnlock - Established relationship - Male lingerie - Smut - Rating E - Cheated a bit with the prompt

When Sherlock entered the hall at Scotland Yard, John huffed a brief sigh of disappointment: not that his boyfriend wasn’t handsome, he was gorgeous as usual, but he didn't respect the spirit of the party.

For the New year’s eve party, Greg had asked all the participants to wear a Christmas garment that was cheerful and ridiculous, so Anderson had socks with small Christmas baubles attached, Donovan weared the classic headband with reindeer ears and horns, and Greg had a sweater with a zombie snowman that was melting.

Also John had chosen a ridiculous sweater with working LED lights; he had left home two hours earlier, while Sherlock was still busy writing an article about mushroom poisons, and had begged him to respect the spirit of the party, wearing the sweater with the drunken reindeers he had bought him for that occasion.

Instead Sherlock had dressed as usual: a suit and a silk shirt, both black. Very elegant, but more suited to a funeral home convention than to a party for the New year.

"Your boyfriend is nice, Watson. Do you have to go digging up dead bodies?" Donovan snickered, passing past him.

"Did you tell him that it's not Halloween and that he didn’t have to dress like a gravedigger?" Anderson echoed.

John frowned: he didn’t particularly like when the two of them made fun of Sherlock, but he hadn’t asked him anything impossible, just to wear an ugly sweater.

He took a glass of champagne from the buffet table and decided that his boyfriend should be punished in some way, so he would sleep on the couch for a couple of nights at least.

Sherlock probably realized he had made him angry, because he didn’t go to meet him, nor he asked him to dance, and John did the same, glaring at him from a distance.

Throughout the evening, the former soldier saw him talking animatedly with Dimmock and then with Lestrade (about a case, probably), and it was only around midnight that the two met in a corridor, near the restroom.

"Get ready to sleep on the couch tonight," John grumbled.

"You're angry," Sherlock said, without any particular inflection of his voice.

"Yes, I am: I just had asked you to wear a stupid sweater for a party, but you must always be the party pooper."

"Actually, I'm having a good time deducing the lives of the agents, you're the one who seems to have a bad time."

"And whose fault is it?"

"I'm sorry I didn’t wear your sweater, but apparently I'm much more tied to tradition than I thought."

"What are you talking about?"

"I read that for the New year’s eve it's tradition to wear something red, and that's what I did."

John frowned. "Did you become colorblind? Sherlock, you're dressed in total black."

"No, not completely," Sherlock murmured, lowering his voice sensually, and a shiver of excitement and fear ran along John's spine.

Of excitement, because he suspected he would like his boyfriend's next move.

Of fear, because surely it was something crazy and dangerous.

With a mischievous smile on his lips, Sherlock unbuttoned his trousers and lowered them suddenly. John looked around in alarm and then dragged him behind a file cabinet.

"Do you want to get arrested for indecent exposure?" He hissed, eyeing the corridor.

"Relax, everyone is in the hall waiting for midnight."

"Relax... how can I relax when you lower your trousers in public?"

"Don’t you want to see how I respect the tradition of the red garment?"

John looked down slowly and held his breath: Sherlock wore red lace boxer briefs.

Male lingerie.

It was odd, because Sherlock had never worn anything like that, but those pants fitted him, they fitted him so much that John found himself kneeling in front of Sherlock without even realizing it.

It was almost impossible to tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing contrast between the bright red of the fabric and Sherlock’s pale skin: the intricate floral design of the lace covered his cock almost completely, leaving room to imagination.

And John's imagination was working all too well, so much so that he had to adjust his trousers.

He had never thought that a man could be sexy wearing lace lingerie, but now he was so captivated that he couldn’t look away.

"I was thinking of celebrating the new year with something new, but since you don’t appreciate it..." Sherlock started to zip his trousers again, but John grabbed his wrists.

"Oh, you're a very bad man, Sherlock Holmes."

"Aren’t you worried anymore that someone would see us?"

"No," the ex-soldier growled.

Sherlock couldn’t tempt it like that and then pull back: John was a patient man, but not that much. He rested his cheek on Sherlock’s thigh and kissed the bulge of the boxers, licking  slowly along his length, touching his hot skin through the lace.

Far away, in the hall, or in another dimension, someone started a five minutes countdown to midnight.

Above him, Sherlock hissed loudly and grabbed his shoulder to keep his balance, while  John kept on licking him through the fabric without mercy, grabbing his plush buttocks with both hands, and Sherlock's grip on his shoulders tightened.

"It's a strange feeling," John murmured, referring to the fabric, so different from the cotton boxers that Sherlock used to wear.

"It is, it stings, but not in a entirely unpleasant way. And then I like the effect it has on you, it’s a surprise," said Sherlock, running his fingers through John’s hair.

"Yes, I never thought it was so alluring, but, after all, I should have known,” John chuckled, sitting on his heels. “You would have the same effect on me whatever you wear."

"Do you want to try it?" Sherlock asked, a corner of his mouth lifting in a dirty smile.

"The boxers? Here? How?"

Sherlock motioned for him to get up, and lowered his trousers and underwear, rubbing against him.

"Oh... OH!" John groaned: rubbing against the lace caused a strange sensation, something borderline between pleasure and a slight burning, and think that Sherlock had worn those boxers for hours caused him a shiver.

"I thought of you all the time," Sherlock confessed, biting his earlobe. "How you would react, what you would do to me, I imagined you bending me over the buffet table and taking me there, in front of everyone."

A shiver of pleasure ran through John's body, and the doctor bit his lips.

"Please, have mercy on me."

"Mmh... no" Sherlock replied, continuing to torment his ear and rubbing sensually against him: it was a delicious torture, but it was no longer enough for John, so he gently grabbed the elastic of the pants and lowered them.

"I loved your surprise, but now you should really take off this Christmas garment."

Sherlock giggled against John's shoulder, then grabbed both of their erections in his big hand.

"Sher..." John sobbed and then searched his lips, assaulting them with kisses and tiny bites, while Sherlock brought them to orgasm.

When John caught his breath, noticed that hundreds of fireworks were exploding outside the window.

"Hey John?"

“Hm?”

"Happy New Year."

John laughed and kissed his forehead.

"Well, it starts in wonderful way for sure."


	4. 4.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4\. Last Christmas I gave you my heart and you asked me to marry you  
> Johnlock - Fluff - Wedding proposal - Rating G

Your hands stop for a moment when they unwrap that particular heart-shaped decoration.

You should hurry up: John will be home soon and you want him to find the Christmas tree already decorated, but you are overwhelmed by the memory of that evening.

You were standing almost in the same spot where you are now.

One year.

It has already been a year, incredible.

 

_ John has just returned to Baker Street and his sister sent him a box of old Christmas decorations found in the attic, so tonight John came home with a real fir tree, determined to brush up on a tradition of the Watsons. _

_ You don’t tell him what's going through your head, that this is not the right environment for a fir tree and that the plant will dry out within a few weeks, John's smile as he opens the box is so contagious that you've stopped your mouth in time. _

_ John has a story almost for every decoration, he remembers if they belonged to his grandparents or if they are newer, when they were bought and if he and Harry had a fight to choose them (almost always) or if they chose them together (almost never). _

_ John hasn’t many happy memories, but Christmas is one of them and here, in the chaotic little living room of Baker Street, he decided to share them with you. _

_ Despite everything, despite the pain, despite all the lies and wounds, despite what happened between the two of you, John came back there. _

_ He came back to you. _

_ John realizes he has monopolized the conversation and, with a slightly embarrassed smile, passes some decorations to you. The shadow of a warning is in his eyes: some decorations are made of glass, they are old and fragile, and you must handle them with care. _

_ You bow slightly your head to tell him that you understood, and in any case you would treat them with the same attention even if they were plastic junk from a discount store, because they belong to John. _

_ You start hanging them on your side of the tree, which is still very bare, you are careful and focussed as if you were working on a scientific experiment and, with the corner of your eye, you can see John smiling with indulgence at your meticulousness. _

_ After having finished to fill one side, you move towards John, to hang a red and white heart-shaped decoration on a slightly bare branch; you are about to withdraw your hand when John reaches out and touches the decoration. _

_ "This is my favourite." _

_ You frown: this is not the deduction you made. Why is John lying? _

_ "No, when you were a child, your favorite was the snowflake shaped one." _

_ You understood it from the state of that particular decoration: it seems new, even if it’s one of the oldest, because it has always been handled with great care, so that it wouldn’t be damaged. _

_ "Back then it was, but now my favorite is this." _

_ A heart. _

_ None of you has yet moved your hand, so the tip of your fingers is touching John’s, in an instant, the relaxed atmosphere changes radically, and the moment is charged with tension and expectation. _

_ Feelings are not your forte, they will never be, but you can recognize an opportunity when you see it. A few other times it happened to you when it comes to John: the first night during the dinner at Angelo’s, at Baskerville the morning your fight, on the tarmac at the airport. There was an opportunity back there, but the moment was wrong. _

_ And now? _

_ Now the moment seems perfect that to talk about something that you often pretend it doesn’t exist, but that you have been carrying in your heart for a long, long time. _

_ It's not easy, it's the hardest thing you've ever done and you're terrified, because in this single, brief instant, everything could change for you. _

_ For both of you. _

_ But you let pass a few seconds too many, and John is about to withdraw his hand, you no longer have time to think: you do it now, or even this opportunity will be lost. _

_ "I love you" whispers, eyes fixed on the red and white heart, which becomes a perfect metaphor of your heart, because you have just placed it in John’s hands, and now he could do anything with it, even crushing it in a thousand pieces. _

_ But John, unpredictable, fantastic, unique John, surprises you once again: he takes your hand, laces his fingers with yours, and moves you from the tree, so he can face you, and he looks at you as if he has always waited to ear these words from you. _

_ The fairy lights that dye the room in a thousand colors make this moment almost magical. _

_ "Marry me, Sherlock Holmes." _

_ "What?" _

_ You misunderstood, you must have misunderstood: John didn’t reject you, didn’t run away screaming at your declaration of love, but he couldn’t have just asked you to marry him, did he? _

_ The doctor's lips curled in a smile. "You’re lucky that that I don’t hate to repeat myself: marry me Sherlock Holmes, because we have already lost too much time. If you really love me, spend the rest of your life with me." _

 

"Sherlock?"

John is in front of you, again, like a year ago, and looks at you with a mixture of fun and apprehension: ah, you did it again, you got lost in the memories and time has passed, it’s evening already and the living room is dark.

"I'm fine" you reassure him, and when John looks down at the decoration you hold in your hand, he understands. He raises on tiptoes and kisses you, with the same sweetness of a year ago, the same sweetness that he infuses in every kiss.

"I wanted to surprise you and make you find the flat already decorated for Christmas."

"You can hang the garlands and the lights on the windows, the socks on the mantelpiece and the mistletoe over the door, but we decorate the Christmas tree together: it's a Watson-Holmes tradition."

"Do we have a tradition? Since when?"

"Since you gave me your heart, love."


	5. 5.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5\. Yes, _________, there is a Santa Claus  
> No pairing - Pre-slash - Crack - Rating T

"Fuck, there is still that hellish stink!" John cursed, coming down the stairs that morning. It remembered that of rotten eggs or a garbage bin under the sun, and persistently lingered in their apartment for a few days.

Despite being late December, John had opened the windows every morning, bought three air fresheners and even washed cushions and curtains, as a perfect desperate housewife, but the situation hadn’t improved.

John didn’t know how it was possible, but knew very well who the culprit was: Sherlock.

A week before Sherlock had started a chemical experiment that involved the use of sulfur and caustic soda, which had released a terrible smell. Deaf to Sherlock's protests, John had thrown everything away, but the smell was getting worse as the days went by instead of fading.

What the hell had Sherlock done?

"Sherlock! Fuck! Shit!" He shouted, and a few minutes later the consulting detective emerged from his bedroom wearing only his pajamas: his hair was in disarray and he was still sleepy. He had just solved a case and had fallen asleep on the bed the night before, after staying awake for two days.

"What is it?" He mumbled, putting the kettle on the stove.

"The stink Sherlock, the stink."

"You've been complaining about the same thing all week, it's terribly dull."

"And I will continue to complain until the effects of your damn experiment are gone."

Sherlock shook his head, scratching his nape.

"It can’t be that, it's scientifically impossible."

"So what is it? It's the fridge, isn’t it?"

"Nonsense John, the rubber on the door seals the fridge, the smells can’t go out. Ah, I wouldn’t do that, if I were you," he added, when he saw John walking to the fridge. Too late, he opened it, and didn’t repress a heavy curse in front of the sawed arm on the second shelf.

"Sherlock!"

"It's not the cause of the smell,” he protested. “It’s fresh."

"Fres... Lord, give me strength," John grumbled, rubbing his face.

Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea and walked to the living room, murmuring something about dead pigeons that he thought he had thrown away, maybe, and John blanched.

"Look, I don’t care what it causes this smell, I don’t even want to know, now I'm going to work and when I come back tonight, I want the flat to be more fragrant than a flower shop."

"Why, is something happening tonight?"

"I've been telling you for two weeks: Brittany is coming here tonight."

"Boring, I had removed it. Who is Bridget?"

"Brittany. She is my girlfriend."

"The seal trainer?"

"No, that was Susan. Brittany is the secretary of a lawyer."

"And why is she coming here?"

"I invited her to dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

"The date is for me, not for you," John said, putting on his jacket. "But seriously, clean up the fridge, make this stink disappear, and I don’t want find you still wearing your pajamas when I come back."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, showing his disinterest in John's date, and then burst out sarcastically: "I'll wear my best suit, don’t worry."

"Don’t overdo," John mumbled, climbing down the stairs: when he wore his elegant suits Sherlock was devastatingly beautiful, and some of John’s girlfriends had been very interested in him (before Sherlock opened his mouth and deduced their lives, of course).

He didn’t believe that it would be differently with Brittany, but it was almost Christmas and, for once, it would have been nice to spend holiday with someone.

That afternoon he returned home loaded with shopping bags, and when he opened the door, he wasn’t hit by the usual rotten smell, but by a strong and penetrating one, not unpleasant, but pungent enough to make his eyes water.

"Sherlock, what did you do?"

"What you asked me, John: I dissipated the stink," he replied eveningly, without looking up from his computer: he had worn one of his suits, not even the best one, but of course he was dashing. John hoped Brittany wouldn’t be so charmed to forget who had invited her to dinner.

"What did you use? It seems to be in a peppermint candy factory."

"Menthol, camphor and eucalyptus oil, the same preparation that coroners use during autopsies."

John put the shopping bag on the kitchen table, and then opened the living room windows.

"Too effective."

"You know John, this little mystery is interesting: what causes such an unpleasant smell? Excluding my experiment with the sulfur that, I let you know, will be resumed as soon as possible-"

"Sure, over my dead body," John interjected.

"I was saying, excluding that, and excluding the dead pigeons, which I had thrown away as I remembered-"

"Wha-? I didn’t know anything about it! Why the hell there were dead animals in our house?"

Sherlock eyed the food on the table and smacked his lips. "I'm not sure you want to know."

"Yes, forget it,” John sighed, starting to cook dinner. “So, what is your conclusion?"

"I don’t have any: I looked everywhere, thinking that a mouse had got stuck somewhere and died, but there are none and I couldn’t find out the origin of this smell."

"Tomorrow I will give you a hand to solve this mystery."

"Why not tonight?"

"Brittany, remember?" He said, showing him the salmon he was about to put in the pan.

"She can help us too: statistically women have a more developed sense of smell than men and they can distinguish many more different smells than us."

"She's my girlfriend, not a truffle dog, and having her sniffing our flat and looking for dead rats is not among the things you do on a date."

"Pity."

"Don’t start!” John threatened him by waving a fork in the air. “And behave like a civilized human being, for once."

"I will not behave in any way, I’ll not dine." Sherlock got up, closed his laptop and headed for his bedroom.

"But I made salmon, you like it."

"As I told you this morning, I'm not hungry."

Sherlock closed the door behind him and John shrugged. If he stayed there all evening, there was a chance that his date would not be a complete failure.

But he put aside a slice of salmon for Sherlock for the next day.

Brittany showed up at 8pm, accepted the glass of white wine from John and looked around curiously; when she saw the collection of insects, the skull on the mantelpiece and the criminology books, she gave John an alarmed look and the doctor hastened to tell her that that stuff didn’t belong to him. "It's Sherlock’s, my flatmate."

"And where is he now?"

"In his room, he feels unwell. You know, seasonal illnesses."

"I see.” Brittany looked at the fireplace and smiled, “How nice! Nowaday few houses have a fireplace: at my grandmother's house there was a huge one and she always let me light it, during winter."

"Yeah, it creates a nice atmosphere, especially under the holidays. If you want, you can start a fire."

"Thank you."

Brittany took a newspaper from the stack next to Sherlock's chair (and John wholeheartedly prayed that the detective had already cut out the articles that interested him, or he would complain forever about it) and some logs, then lit it.

"It's very nice, why don’t we have dinner here on the sofa?"

"Sure."

John cleared the table and Brittany helped him bringing the dishes from the kitchen, but when they turned, they saw that the living room was filled with smoke.

"You could have told me that you have problems with the flue."

"No, I used it a short time ago and it worked perfectly." John knelt by the fireplace and used the ashes to stifle the flames, then sniffed the air, puzzled: why did the wood smell like a barbecue?

Sherlock slammed the door of his bedroom open and ran into the living room brandishing the harpoon.

"The fireplace! It's the only place I haven’t checked."

Brittany flattened herself against the wall, and John tried to reassure her.

"Brittany, this is Sherlock, my flatmate."

"He-he has a harpoon."

"He has the hobby of fishing," John lied, but Sherlock obviously denied it.

"No, I use it to eviscerate pigs," he replied absently, then he stuck the harpoon up the flue, but pulled it back after a few minutes. "I can’t reach it, it's probably stuck higher, I need an extension."

John reached Sherlock in two steps and hissed, irritated: "Can’t we wait until tomorrow and call a chimney sweep?"

"No, I want to find out what's stuck in there."

Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom and emerged shortly after with a broomstick attached to the harpoon.

"I'm Brittany anyway," the woman said as Sherlock passed by, holding out her hand.

The detective didn’t even look at her and put the tool back up the flue.

"Great, I think I hooked it, whatever it is. John, give me a hand!"

John shrugged: the evening was ruined by now, and then they would have eliminated the source of that smell once and for all; he thought it was a big seagull, or maybe a badger or a fox, but when he grabbed the broomstick and pulled hard, something much bigger fell down: a man, dead for days and partially decomposed, wearing a bright red suit.

"Ah-ha, mystery solved: this is the origin of that stink!" Sherlock exclaimed with a dashing smile. Completely out of place in front of those poor remains, but he would never understand it.

John stared at the grotesque spectacle for a few moments, incredulous, then covered his face with one hand.

"Is it true?"

"Yes John, there's a dead Santa in our fireplace."

Behind them, there was a sharp cry that drilled their eardrums and went straight to the brain. Sherlock covered his ears, annoyed, while John moved to Brittany to reassure her, but the girl ran down the stairs, terrified.

Almost at the same time, the clothes of the dead man, lying on hot embers, caught fire.

"That’s the problem with cheap costumes: acrylic fibers," Sherlock sighed, pouring water on the flames.

"Do you still have some of that menthol cream?" John sighed, more annoyed at the smell of death than at Brittany's escape: after all, it was an almost normal night at Baker Street.

"Sure."

"We must call the police."

"I think that Berta already did it."

"Brittany. Who is that man anyway, do you know him?"

"No: I suspect he’s just a common housebreaker: given his thin body, he tried to enter the house from the chimney, perhaps he thought that no one would have noticed a person dressed as Santa Claus during the holidays. I don’t see any injuries or other signs, so I suspect a heart attack, he died, then slipped and got stuck in the flue, but we'll know more after the autopsy. Ah, here is Lestrade."

The Scotland Yard inspector entered the flat without saying a word, looked at Sherlock and John, at the corpse in the fireplace, went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine.

"When I received the delirious phone call of a woman talking about a Santa Claus harpooned in a fireplace, I thought of a joke or a drunkard. At least until she gave me the address."

"We didn’t do anything, he tried to break into our flat and died in the flue!" John protested.

"You know what? I don’t want to know, I will pass the case to Dimmock and will bring in a forensics team. Don’t touch anything."

"I need a glass of wine, too," John grumbled when Lestrade left: he should invite him to the pub to watch a game and drink a beer to make up for that mess.

"I'm sorry for your date," Sherlock ventured.

"Ah, it doesn’t matter: if she does not hold the sight of a dead man falling from the chimney, what would she say about the corpses in the fridge?"

They looked at each other and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dead pigeons are a homage to Chryse's story, "A River Without Banks".


	6. 6.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 6\. “No ______! You can’t put candles on the tree! I don’t care if it looks nice it’ll catch on fire you idiot!”  
> Johnlock - Potterlock - Established relationship - Humour - Rating G

Sherlock raised an arm and immediately a taxi stopped in front of them.

Passers-by looked at them, amazed: it was almost Christmas and being able to have a taxi without waiting seemed a miracle.

Or a magic.

Which actually was.

"Can you stop?” John hissed, sitting next to him. “You'll end up blowing up our cover."

Sherlock seemed to think seriously about it for a few moments, then uttered a dry "no."

"You're impossible," John grumbled, and Sherlock folded his arms and looked out the window.

Fantastic! Now he pouted, too.

Sherlock and John were a Consulting Auror and his right-hand man, and usually they operated within the magical world, but recently a wizard was pulling bad pranks on Muggles in London. Nothing too serious, but this had meant too much work for the Obliviators, someone had complained, and Mycroft, who was in a minor position at the Ministry of Magic (but was actually more powerful than the Minister himself), had asked them to investigate.

At first Sherlock had refused, as he thought the case was too trivial and not worthy of his attention and time, but unfortunately he owed Mycroft several favors, and eventually he was forced to accept.

So here they were, incognito in the middle of Soho looking for clues, and if Muggle London was difficult to navigate for wizards during the rest of the year, under Christmas holidays it became a nightmare: to John it was a mystery how so many people could walk down the streets and not collide with each other without the help of a spell, or how they managed to get home every night without using a broomstick, given the amount of traffic along the streets.

And if he had tried to brush off his Muggle Studies, and was doing everything he could to go unnoticed, Sherlock hadn’t done anything like that and used magic for everything, especially to avoid the small daily nuisances, so John had to worry about finding the criminal wizard and also not to be discovered.

To tell the truth he could understand, at least in part, the irritation of his companion: that year they had planned to spend Christmas holidays in Lapland, where Sherlock wanted to study local magical creatures (and it would be their first holiday as a married couple, so yes, John was rather irritated, too).

A strange little tune spread in the air and John looked around, puzzled, until Sherlock sighed: "It's your phone."

Oh yes, since they couldn’t use owls or Patronus to communicate, Mycroft had given them these strange devices, but when John finally managed to pull it out of his coat pocket, it stopped ringing. Well, certainly he wouldn’t have called back: the last time he had pressed his fingers on the screen of that phone, had managed to erase its entire contents, so if Mycroft wanted to hear news from him, he had to call again.

"It's absolutely ridiculous, I'll send him a Patronus tonight," Sherlock exclaimed.

"You can’t! And don’t use that word! What if the taxi driver gets suspicious?"

"I used a spell, so he can’t hear what we say."

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"Look, I hate this situation as much as you, but we have given Mycroft our word, and the faster we resolve this case, the faster we can get back to our home."

"I'm almost there, I'll find him soon."

John sighed in obvious relief.

In order to blend in better among the Muggles, they rented a small apartment near Carnaby Street, and when they got home, they found a fir tree at the front door.

"What’s this…?"

The landlady put the head out of her apartment and smiled.

"There was a little misunderstanding with my nephew and now I’ve an extra tree, so I thought to give it to you, since you don’t have any Christmas decoration... unless this is against your religion or something. "

It was clear that she thought that they were two oddballs.

"No, no, thank you very much, it was a kind thought," John replied, bringing the tree inside.

"See? I told you that not decorating the flat would have made us suspicious," Sherlock said, once the door was closed.

"You wanted to fill home with magical decorations: floating lights, ice fairies and magical snow falling from the ceiling."

"Of course! Muggle decorations are terribly boring and ordinary."

"It doesn’t matter."

"But…"

"No, I don’t want to hear another word about magic decorations."

 

Sherlock worked at the case all night long, and the next morning he told John that there were two possible suspects, so they split up. Sherlock's suspect was innocent, while John arrested the culprit and hand him over to some Aurors.

With some difficulty, John managed to use the phone and called Sherlock.

"Mh, in the end we solved the case faster than I thought. Too bad, I decorated the Christmas tree in vain," sighed Sherlock.

"When did you do it?" John wanted to know.

"This morning, before going out: I didn’t want to make our landlady more suspicious of us."

"It makes sense, but what did you use? We have no decorations."

"I bought some candles."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"They are pretty."

"No Sherlock! You can’t put candles on a tree! It doesn’t matter if they are cute, it will catch fire, you idiot!"

"At home we always do it."

"Yes, but they are magic candles."

"Don’t worry John, the tree is fresh, not dry enough to catch fire... oh..."

" _ Oh _ what, Sherlock? Sherlock?"

In the background, John heard the sirens of different rescue vehicles.

"It seems that I have underestimated the resinous component of the plant."

"... Sherlock! What did I say about it?"

“Well, even the best get it wrong sometimes.”

Fortunately there was no serious damage, the two tenants disappeared into thin air, the landlady was refunded by a mysterious insurance company that no one had ever heard of, and Mycroft swore not to ask help again to his brother.


	7. 7.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7\. Celebrating (wink, wink) Christmas with ______ and ________ walks in on you.  
> Johnlock - Established relationship - Angst - Post S4 - Rating G - It’s the only story of the collection that makes explicit reference to S4 and where there is John's daughter.

At 9pm, Sherlock and John showed up at Mycroft and Greg's house to get Rosie back. Greg's children had given a small Christmas party and the little girl had been invited, too.

John took the blue coat from the coat rack and called his daughter, who was coloring a drawing with Marissa, Greg's oldest daughter, but Rosie didn’t move.

"Rosie, please, you promised me you wouldn’t make a fuss about going home."

Rosie stood up, but instead of going to her father, she clung to Sherlock's leg, refusing to look at him.

"Did something happen?" John asked, puzzled by that behavior.

Marissa shrugged: "I don’t know, she was happy the whole evening, then, a little while ago, she went to the bathroom and when she came back she was sulky. Maybe she's just sleepy."

"Yes, it must be that, she's used to going to bed earlier than this."

Sherlock put the coat on Rosie and took her by the hand.

When they got home, the strange behavior of the child continued: she didn’t want to hear the bedtime story and went immediately to her room upstairs.

"I should had stayed at Mycroft’s, talk to all of Greg's children and find out what happened," Sherlock said. "Maybe I should call them now."

John smiled affectionately: even though Rosie's problems were small and mundane, Sherlock treated them with the same attention he put in solving a complicated crime.

"Greg's children are all older than Rosie, they probably excluded her from some games and she got offended. When Harry and his friends didn’t let me play with them, I became pouty, too. Tomorrow she will be fine."

John went behind Sherlock, pulled off his coat, hugged him and kissed him on the neck.

"Mh, what are your intentions, Dr. Watson?"

"I was thinking that we could also give a private and exclusive Christmas party."

Sherlock rolled over in his embrace and blew on his lips, "Yes, captain."

John wetted his lips, and his eyes sparkled with desire: every now and then they liked to do some roleplay, and the roles of captain and private were their favorite; John knew Sherlock liked it when sex was rude and rough, so he grabbed his hair and tugged his head back.

"On your knees, soldier!"

"STOP!" Rosie's angry voice reverberated in the living room, and John stepped away from Sherlock, terribly embarrassed: they kissed naturally in front of his daughter, but being surprised when they were going to have sex was different, Rosie was too young and the topic was still taboo.

"Rosie, we were just playing" John tried to reassure her.

"No, it's like what Uncle Myc says! You're bad with Sherlock, you beat him!" The girl ran near Sherlock, grabbed his hand and started to drag him away from John; Sherlock, however, didn’t budge, but knelt before her.

"Rosie, what are you talking about?"

"Tonight I heard Uncle Myc tell Uncle Greg that he's still worried about you, because once Dad has hurt you so much, and he's afraid he'll hit you again."

John blanched and backed up against the bookshelf, while Sherlock mentally cursed his brother.

"You don’t have to listen to Uncle Mycroft,” Sherlock said, “I told you many times that he’s dumber than a box of rocks."

The joke usually made Rosie laugh, but not this time.

"You mean he told a lie? That daddy didn’t beat you?"

Sherlock looked briefly at John, implicitly asking if he could talk to his daughter, and John just nodded, still too shocked to move: he seemed on the verge of a panic attack.

"Come, I'll take you back to your room, so we'll talk."

He took her by the hand, up to her room, and tucked her into bed again.

"Well? Is Uncle Myc a liar?"

Sherlock had a very precise course of action with children: he never lied to them.

Of course, the truth had to be calibrated according to their age, but telling them lies and fairy tales meant to treat them like idiots, and children weren’t stupid. He had suffered the same treatment when he was a child and couldn’t tolerate it, he didn’t want to make the same mistake with Rosie.

"No," he said slowly, "he told the truth, but-"

"Daddy is evil!” Rosie interrupted him. “Stay here and sleep with me, so he will not beat you again."

"I'll stay until you're asleep," Sherlock said. "But then I'll come back to him."

"Why? You must not!"

"Rosie..."

Rosie knew that Sherlock was adamant when he made a decision: his father could be convinced with some whims or a fake tears, especially when she wanted a new toy, but not Sherlock.

"Aren’t you afraid of him?"

"No Rosie, quite the contrary: John is the only person in the world to whom I would entrust my life, there is nobody I trust more than him, no one I love more than him."

"But he is evil."

"No it’s not true."

"He hit you," the girl insisted, and Sherlock sighed: her logic still didn’t allow her to grasp the nuances; to her everything was white or black, good or bad, yes or no. In her mind, John had done a bad thing, so he was bad, but Sherlock didn’t want that episode to ruin the relationship between father and daughter.

"Do you have in mind Denise, your kindergarten friend?"

"Yes."

"Last month Rufus, her dog, bit her hand. Do you remember how it happened?"

"Yes, we were at the park and Denise kept pulling Rufus's tail, it got angry and bit her on the hand."

"Exactly: Rufus did a bad thing, but Denise was the one who did it wrong.” He closed his eyes and sighed, “And when your dad hit me, it was the same: he was very angry at me, but he had a good reason. It was my fault if he hit me, because I did an unforgivable thing."

"Like Denise pulling Rufus’ tail?"

"Yes, only a lot more serious than that."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the girl: Rosie was reevaluating her judgment on him, perhaps now she would start to dislike him for making his father angry. If so, Sherlock would have accepted it, to safeguard the relationship between John and Rosie; after all, one day they should tell her about her mother and how she died, and Rosie would have hated him, it was inevitable.

But for the moment Rosie surprised him, because she said: "You were both wrong," in a very Solomonic way.

_ "But I was more wrong than him," _ Sherlock thought.

"And before?” Rosie asked again, “Did you do something that made daddy angry?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Ah… no, what you saw wasn’t a fight."

"But he was pulling your hair."

"It was a... game, a game that sometimes adults do, but we both like it, I assure you."

The girl pressed her lips together and thought a few moments about it.

"Like when my friends Alan and Tom play-fight?"

"Yes, yes, something like that."

Rosie seemed satisfied with his answer and was much calmer than before: she kept looking at Sherlock, but her eyelids were getting heavier, she was about to falling asleep again.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"You don’t have to worry: dad has forgiven you for what you did, because when he looks at you he always smiles, so he means he's happy."

When he was sure that Rosie was sound asleep, Sherlock stroked her hair and murmured, "That's what I hope every day of my life."

He heard the steps creak and realized that John had been out of the room all the time.

He moved the chair and quietly closed the door behind him, returning downstairs, but John wasn’t in the living room; he entered their bedroom and found him leaning against the window, almost hidden by the curtain.

"As first thing tomorrow morning, I'll give Mycroft a piece of my mind: he isn’t allowed to stick his big nose in in our lives."

John swallowed and folded his arms to his chest; he looked terribly uncomfortable and Sherlock hesitated to approach him.

"I'm sorry, I've been too intrusive, isn’t it? Rosie is your daughter and you should have talked to her, not me. It will not happen again."

"Nonsense, that's not it." John's face darkened more and more and Sherlock didn’t know what to do: since John had returned to Baker Street, he had never felt him so distant.

"Do you really believe it? Do you really believe the things you said to Rosie?”

"You know well that I prefer not to tell lies to her. I know you don’t always agree with this, but if you tell her a lie, she will feel betrayed when she grows up and discovers it."

"I’m not talking about that, you was right to talk to her like that, sometimes I think you're a better parent than me, it's your words..." John sighed and finally looked up at him for the first time since Sherlock had entered the room. “You still think you deserved what I did to you, and that Mary died because of you."

"It's the truth that you’ll have to tell Rosie, one day."

John shook his head.

"No, when the time comes, I will tell Rosie that Mary died for the consequences of her life choices. It was the steps she took and the decisions she made to bring her to that place at that moment. Just that."

"John..."

"No Sherlock, the truth is this, but it doesn’t surprise me that you think you’re guilty of something.” He leaned his back against the window, “And it's my fault. As you were talking to Rosie, I realized that I never really apologized to you for those accusations, or for having…” John stopped and covered his eyes with a trembling hand, overwhelmed by the memory of Sherlock massacred by his kicks. “I should have never raise a finger on you, and, besides, after beating you, I showed up at your house, babbled two ridiculous excuses and ended up crying on your shoulder, making you comfort me, when it should have been the other way round. And I've never begged for your forgiveness; in the end I just let it slip away, like if what I did to you had never happened."

"You didn’t ask forgiveness because you know you have nothing to apologize for."

"You would forgive me anything, right? You'd let me kill you, rather than tell me I'm wrong."

"John, you're exaggerating, you would never do such a thing."

"But I did it, Sherlock! I did!” John slid to the ground, “Sometimes I think you'd be better off without me, and if I were a better man I should disappear from your life forever."

At these words Sherlock finally moved and knelt before him; when he spoke, his voice betrayed his panic.

"John, no! Don’t go, I'll do everything-"

"Everything I want,” John interrupted, looking at him with his eyes full of sadness, “I know."

"I do it because I love you. Is it wrong?"

"It's not healthy! Christ Sherlock, you said that you hope every day that I have forgiven you, when it’s me the one who wonder if you could ever forgive me for having beaten you."

"I did it."

"Unfortunately I know also this."

"Why are you talking like that?"

"Because I didn’t do anything to deserve your forgiveness."

"You're here, you've come back to me, and that's all that matters to me.” He moved to his side and rested his head on his shoulder, “Please, stay."

John kissed his hair.

"Stay," Sherlock whispered again, his voice full of panic, clutching his side convulsively. "Swear to me that you stay."

"I swear," John reassured him, but it didn’t seem enough to Sherlock, because he still looked at him apprehensively, so John added: "Rosie is right, you know? I love you, you make me happy, you don’t know how much, and I'm not a better person, I can’t give up on you, but I promise you I'll do everything to deserve your love."

"You don’t have to deserve it, you already have it."

"And I thank God every day for this." Really, he was the luckiest bastard on earth.

"Are you coming to bed?" Sherlock begged.

John got up, took him by the hand and made him lie down, holding him tight all night. Sherlock, exhausted by that emotional confrontation, fell asleep almost immediately, while John stayed awake for a long time, renewing to himself the oath that he would never hurt Sherlock again.


	8. 8.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8\. Instead of getting a present from ______ you find a clue first thing in the morning, one clue leads to another until you finally find his/her gift.  
> Johnlock - Established relationship - Slice of life - Rating G

"John..." Sherlock stretched out his hand on the mattress, finding it cold. It was Christmas morning and his husband wasn’t on duty at the clinic, normally he liked to stay in bed, idling, and he was the one who woke up first.

He pulled the blue robe from the hook behind the door and went into the living room, calling him again, but John wasn’t there. On the kitchen table, however, there was a bowl of porridge with a post-it attached, saying "Eat me".

Lately he was behaving well, he ate at least once a day, so he didn’t understand why John had decided to resort to that trick to make him eat breakfast, but he decided play along, because now he was curious.

After a few spoons of porridge, Sherlock fished a plastic capsule from the bottom. Intrigued, he cleaned up and opened it, finding a note with a quote:  _ "If music be the food of love, then play on." _

Sherlock recognized it was from Shakespeare, and understood: John was inviting him to a treasure hunt.

Sherlock smiled and stroked the note fondly: to elaborate that Christmas surprise and find a quote that suited him must have cost John a great effort.

He got ready, called a taxi and asked the driver to bring him to Leicester Square, in front of the the statue of Shakespeare.

He looked around for the next clue until he found an envelope attached with tape to a lamp pole, with a letter inside:

_ "My beloved Sherlock, _

_ I hope you will not find my idea too childish and you will want to play the game. _

_ I bet that you are wondering why I chose this place." _

Yes, Sherlock was thinking about it: they had walked through Leicester Square countless times, but he didn’t remember anything important that had happened there. They hadn’t arrested a culprit, the square or the statue weren’t involved in one of his investigation, and hadn’t even been the scene of unsolved murders of the past.

_ "Once we were walking through this square, I don’t even remember in which occasion, but I remember that there was a van selling sandwiches, near the gardens. The girl who served the customers wasn’t English, probably she had just arrived in London, and didn’t understand our language well. A client was yelling at her, uttering terribly racist insults and I was thinking of intervening myself, but you moved first. You neared the man and deduced something about his life, he bleached and ran away, then you talked to the girl and encouraged her with a kindness that you used only with Mrs. Hudson. _

_ In that moment I started to glimpse the big heart that lies behind your big mind, and I thought you were the best man I’ve ever known. _

_ Ready for the next stop? So here's the clue: it's the smallest of Britain, and you always say that without you it would be lost." _

Sherlock folded the letter carefully and put it in his coat pocket: now he understood, John invited him to a sentimental journey, which had little or nothing to do with the cases they had solved, but rather with them, their story and their sentiments. And if, in the past, John’s choice would have made scrunch his nose because it was too cheesy, now he couldn’t think of a more beautiful idea.

His destination was nearby: John was referring to Britain's smallest police station, that was  in Trafalgar Square, and he walked to it.

There, on a low wall, held by a stone, there was another letter.

_ "I had been visiting Harry, who had returned to live in our parents' house after breaking up with her last girlfriend. Usually, visiting Harry always left me in a bad mood, but that time it went well, so, back in London, I decided to take a gift for her at the National Gallery shop. _

_ I got off the Tube at Charing Cross, crossed the square and saw you sitting near the monument: you were writing something on the phone and you didn’t noticed me. Maybe you were waiting for Lestrade or one of your informants, I don’t know. _

_ Instinctively, I hid behind a tree and watched you for a few minutes: I had been away from Baker Street only a few days, and I had returned to the place where I was born, but now, surrounded by Harry’ stuff, I felt like a guest, there was nothing more of me in that house, nothing to be tied to. _

_ Instead, looking at you, I thought, "My house is with Sherlock, now, this is the place where I want to come back after a trip." _

_ I think that was the first time that I admitted to myself that you were and would always be the most important person in my life. _

_ And that I was falling in love with you. _

_ The next clue is outrageously easy: for a while you've been there so many times that I asked you if I should have been jealous." _

Sherlock smiled, called a taxi, and got to the next destination, the British Library.

The library was obviously closed, being Christmas Day, but Sherlock found John's usual letter near the statue of Newton.

_ "I had found the courage and finally kissed you for the first time, but I admit that your reaction wasn’t what I had expected. Even if you told me that you loved me too and that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me, I saw that you were terribly upset, almost frightened, even if you did everything you could not to show it. _

_ You disappeared all day, saying you were coming to the British library for research on an important case, but I was afraid it was my fault, I was afraid I had done everything wrong and ruined our relationship, because maybe you were not interested to a relationship, so one day I came here too and asked to see the books you had consulted. It took all my charm to persuade the librarian to help me (don’t be jealous, it was for a good cause) and can you imagine how I felt when she brought to me that very high pile of manuals on how to be the perfect partner? I almost cried that day. _

_ But, in this regard, in these years of marriage I hope I managed to make you understand that you don’t have to be perfect or follow any manual, you just have to be yourself, because this is the man I fell in love with. _

_ Merry Christmas, Sherlock." _

John's shadow appeared before him, but Sherlock still didn’t look up from the last letter.

"It's an idea that popped suddenly in my mind, and I don’t even know if it's a real Christmas present," muttered the former soldier, shrugging, fearing that Sherlock hadn’t understood his gesture; but he smiled, folding the sheet of paper and putting it away with the others.

"Often, in these years, I wondered what you found in an unsociable grumpy man like me,” Sherlock murmured. “it was amazing to see me through your eyes. Thanks John, it was a beautiful gift."

Finally Sherlock lifted his head and met his husband's bright gaze.


	9. 9.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 9\. I’m a barista and you keep making weird faces when you drink the “Christmas cheer in a cup” coffee I make, why do you keep ordering it?  
> Johnlock - First kiss - Coffee shop AU - Rating G - Cheated a bit with this prompt: not a coffee, but a tisane.

Mrs. Hudson had to be forbidden to watch television, especially those stupid cooking competitions, because then she would come to the cafè, with the idea of copying the challenges she had seen.

So, one day she explained to the three employees of Martha's Café, Sherlock, Molly and Mike, how to decide who would have been the employee of the month of December. They would have to invent a seasonal, festive drink for their customers: the inventor of the most successful drink would have won a small sum of money.

Molly and Mike immediately showed their enthusiasm for the initiative, and Sherlock, being in an overwhelming minority, didn’t even try to protest, but wasn’t interested in winning.

Not that he had any hope, anyway: he was considered "scary" by most customers, he himself liked more to work in the small pastry shop in the rear of the Café, rather than with the customers. However, on Christmas, as London was filled with tourists, there was more work and Mrs. Hudson hired a seasonal pastry chef, while the three of them were working behind the counter.

"I recommend you to be always smiling and nice: everyone deserves a smile, especially at Christmas," she said, addressing all of them generically, but Sherlock knew that the observation was mainly for him.

Couldn’t he call sick?

No, unfortunately no, he needed the money.

Mike created a non-alcoholic cocktail called "Apple tree", with apple and cherry juice, ginger and a slice of lime, while Molly made a seasonal cappuccino, spiced with cinnamon, cocoa and macadamia nuts, called "Your snowfall".

Sherlock was horrified: he would never have created something so trivial; his creation, "Christmas cheer in a cup", was a detoxing herbal tea made with rhubarb and red turnip, Omani black lemon, Timut pepper and black garlic.

During holidays people ate too much and badly, the idea of a tisane was the most intelligent, but people, obviously, were idiots and didn’t understand, because no one had ordered his tisane so far: they read the ingredients, raised an eyebrow and ordered something different.

Mrs. Hudson politely made him notice that some of the ingredients he had used had a too exotic flavour, and suggested him to change the recipe a bit, but Sherlock stubbornly refused.

One afternoon, Mike entered the café with a blond boy, and introduced him to his colleagues: "This is John Watson, a mate of mine from University."

John sat down on a stool at the counter and read on the menu about the three Christmas drinks challenge.

"What's yours?" He asked Sherlock, who was cutting two slices of chocolate cake.

"Christmas cheer in a cup."

"And how is it going?"

Sherlock frowned and pointed to the chalkboard behind him: next to the names of Sherlock, Mike and Molly, Mrs. Hudson drew a little star every time someone ordered their drink. Sherlock was at the bottom of the rankings without any star.

"So good, then," John joked; if possible Sherlock frowned further; he brought the slices of cake to the customers and then returned behind  counter.

"So what do you want, Mike's drink or Molly's cappuccino?"

John looked at him and smiled.

"Actually, I want your tisane."

Sherlock gaped, stunned, and didn’t move.

"Well?"

"Ah… ah... yes, of course."

He dropped the cup into the sink and had to take a clean one; fiddled with the ingredients and served the herbal tea to John. The boy took a sip and made a strange grimace, followed by a very tight smile, added two packets of sugar and drank again, but his facial expression didn’t change.

Oh well, at least he wouldn’t have closed the challenge without any point.

 

However, a couple of days later John returned to Martha's Café and ordered Sherlock's herbal tea again.

"I didn’t change the ingredients" the young barista warned.

John looked at him a few seconds and then chuckled: "Yes, I thought so."

The boy drank his Christmas cheer in a cup, and didn’t seem to like it much more than the first time. Finally he greeted Sherlock, paid and went out.

He was really a strange guy.

John became soon a regular customer of the place, as well as the only one to order Sherlock's tisane, and the barista just couldn’t understand why he did it: from his disgusted grimaces it was clear that John didn’t like it at all, so why did he keep ordering it? Maybe he had a masochistic kink? No, highly improbable.

Undoubtedly, John Watson had caught his attention, and the moments when he was at the café and the two of them chatted together, were the nicest of Sherlock's shift; sometimes John stayed until the closing time or the end of Sherlock's shift, and they walked together to the Tube.

"What will you do for Christmas, going home?" John asked one evening.

"No, unless my brother is chaining and dragging me home."

John laughed and looked at him with fondness.

"Do you have any other plans, then? Will you spend it with your girlfriend or... your boyfriend?"

"I have no one," Sherlock replied, shrugging. "But if there were, it would be a boyfriend” he added, without knowing why.

It seemed to him that John hide a smile under his scarf.

 

Sherlock tried to follow Mrs. Hudson's directions as much as possible, to be kind to customers, but one afternoon he had to deal with two women disputing his tiramisu, suggesting that he should use ricotta instead of mascarpone cheese.

"It would be lighter, young man."

"But it wouldn’t be a tiramisu."

"Details: you should fulfill customer’ requests. Don’t you know that customers are always right?”

"Not when they ask an abomination. I will not ruin a famous Italian dessert to satisfy your whims."

"How do you dare?” the customer shrieked. “I want to talk to the owner!"

Mrs. Hudson wasn’t there, but Sherlock knew that the woman wouldn’t calm down until she talked to someone.

"Is there any problem?" Asked a familiar voice behind him, and Sherlock turned: it was John, dressed in a suit and tie (back from a lunch with family, he deduced) and looking worried.

"Are you the owner of this place?"

"Yes,” John lied casually, leaving Sherlock shocked. “What can I do for you?"

"I demand you fire immediately this rude kid, he has disrespected me."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but John stopped him, raising his hand: "Sherlock, go to the kitchen."

"But..."

"Go, don’t make your situation worse."

From behind the door, he heard John apologize to the customers, assuring them he would fire him, and said that what they’ve eaten was on him.

Satisfied, the two women left the place, even if they promised not to come there again.

John left some money near the cash register to pay for what they had eaten, but Sherlock came out of the kitchen to stop him.

"No, you don’t have to, I'll pay."

"What was you thinking, Sherlock?"

"I should be the one asking that to you: why did you pretend to be my employer and saved me?"

John sat on the stool and looked at Sherlock in disbelief.

"You really don’t know? After all these days?"

"No!" Sherlock snapped: he had tried to analyze and understand John’s actions, but he was still groping in the dark, and that was terribly frustrating. "No, I can’t understand you, John Watson!” he continued. “You come here every day and order a tisane that clearly you don’t like, and now save my job. Why?"

John covered his face with one hand and laughed.

"And I thought I was very explicit."

"About what?" Sherlock asked, taking a step toward him.

"If you were fired, we couldn’t see each other anymore, and surely I couldn’t do this."

He grabbed him by the apron, pulling to himself, and kissed him loudly on his lips.

Sherlock was paralyzed for a few moments, then put a hand to his lips, as if to make sure that yes, John had kissed him.

"Oh."

"I hope it's clear enough, now."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Now you can stop ordering my herb tea."

"Thank God."


	10. 10.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 10\. We’re neighbors and I just got locked out of my apartment, I was baking cookies that will burn if I don’t get in there quick  
> Johnlock - Alternate First meeting - Unilock - Humor - Rating G

John has few but unshakable fixed points in life: no matter what check-out cash register he chooses at the supermarket, he will always be in the slowest line, this year Crystal Palace will not win the Premiere League, and his neighbor is a odd duck.

The last statement may seem assuming, because, since he lives there, John has never met him in person, but his habits speak volumes.

About him, John knows only his initials -SH- scribbled on a piece of tape stuck precariously on the doorbell, and -as said- his bizarre habits.

SH doesn’t have a regular schedule. He doesn’t have any kind of schedule or rules, to be honest, and he lives in total anarchy: he may come back in the middle of the night and play the violin, stealing to John precious hours of sleep, he can spend hours bouncing a rubber ball against the wall when John is studying, he can take a shower when it’s time for lunch or dinner for the rest of the world's population.

SH apparently lives of air: in three months John has never smelled any food fragrance coming from his apartment, and no delivery man has showed up to bring him take away food. Also, he's probably an ascetic or something, since no one else ever has been in his flat, and John didn’t hear his phone ringing.

It's not that John is spying on him, but the walls in that block of flats are made of tissue paper, you can hear even the slightest noise, and anyway SH's behavior would attract everyone's attention, right?

SH could be a terrorist, or a serial killer, or both, because one day John clearly smelled sulfur coming from under the door, and on another day he saw bloody footprints on the doormat (that disappeared the next day), but John didn’t feel like calling the police, he would feel too stupid if his imaginative hypotheses turned out to be groundless (as would happen: nothing exciting happens in his life, let alone be the neighbor of a serial killer).

SH doesn’t seem interested in any kind of festivity: he didn’t decorate the house on Halloween and didn’t open the door to the children asking for "trick or treat?", and now that Christmas is approaching, the door and the windows of his flat are still desolately unadorned. 

Once again, John is not spying on him, he only happens to raise his eyes to SH’s windows when he leaves or comes back home, because... because he is deeply intrigued by such a strange person, he can’t deny it.

And maybe it’s the Christmas atmosphere you can feel everywhere, but in the last days John has often pictured himself knocking on that door and asking SH if he was doing something for Christmas, and if he wanted to join him in his apartment for a toast.

Not that SH occupies all of John's thoughts: there are the exams at the university, rugby trainings and his part-time job. And, just a few days before Christmas, the owner of the appliance store where he works, ropes him with a request that John can’t refuse, not near Christmas, not without being the bad ogre of the situation: to bake cookies for charity.

John isn’t a good great cook, but he doesn’t have to be a Michelin starred chef to make some simple spicy biscuits, he just has to follow the recipe scrupulously, and bake the biscuits for 15 minutes.

He is waiting patiently in front of the oven, when a small explosion makes him run out of the flat: it’s SH, he has no doubt; in fact, a thin green smoke comes out from under the door (green smoke? Good grief, what the heck is his neighbor doing? All the tenants of the building will die intoxicated? Will they become radioactive?)

When he hears the door handle lowering, John is finally ready to tell SH what he thinks of his outlandish habits and his rudeness, but when he appears before him, John is speechless, because the other boy is remarkable.

Definitely remarkable.

John must bin his hypothesis that SH is a terrorist: more probably he’s a model or an actor, with his sparkling grey eyes, framed by a cascade of dark curls, two lips that trigger the worst, nastiest thoughts, and a lean, fit body.

_ "Why hello there, Mr. SH" _ John thinks.

SH scratches his head, residues of green dust falling from his hair, and John emerges from his unchaste thoughts.

"Ah, are you okay, are you hurt?"

"No, no,” SH answers, revealing an incredibly deep voice, that John adds to the list of things that he likes about him. “Um, I'm sorry if the explosion scared you, it wasn’t expected."

"What was it?"

"A calculation error."

"No, I mean, what were you doing?"

"A chemical experiment.” SH looks at him as if to ask him  _ 'is not obvious?' _ , then rolls his eyes seeing John’s worried face. “Nothing dangerous or deadly, I just have to aerate the flat for a few hours and there will not be consequences."

It's December and it's very cold: inviting him to his flat is a mere matter of manners (or at least it's a good excuse to tell to himself).

"In the meantime, do you want to come to my place? I'm John Watson, anyway."

"Sherlock Holmes."

That was not how John had hoped to know him, but this first meeting is so bizarre that it suits a guy like Sherlock. John turns to his door and...

he finds it closed.

It must have closed behind him when he ran out, and obviously he hasn’t the keys with him.

"Shit, shit, shit, the cookies!"

"Did you leave something in the oven and you came out? Rather careless of you, John."

Nice or not, John would strangle him right now.

"It's your fault if I rushed out of my flat."

"Oh, so I suppose I have to apologize somehow."

Sherlock kneels in front of the lock and looks at it for a few moments.

"Can you open it?" asks John, hesitant: Sherlock hasn’t told him yet what he does for a living, and to insinuate that he is a burglar is not very nice.

"No, but I was thinking that I still have some of the mixture that exploded, I could smear it on the lock."

"Are you out of your mind? You would blow up the door and then I would have to pay for it, losing the deposit, not to mention that the landlord would kick me out."

"It would be the best solution,” Sherlock insists. “Besides it would allow me to study the chemical reaction that-"

"Forget it, my door will not be your experiment."

"As you wish, then we'll enter the window you left open: it's near the fire escape, it just takes a leap."

"How do you know that I left the window open?"

And John was ashamed to eavesdrop on his neighbor: maybe now it turns out that he is the one to be spied.

"Because it's logical: you live in a small flat, the oven generates a lot of heat, leaving a window open is an obvious thing to do."

No, he didn’t spy on John, but he has foreseen it: he's too ordinary to attract the attention of a guy like Sherlock.

He’s not disappointed.

No, really, he is not.

They go down the street and turn around the building; Sherlock grabs the end of the iron staircase and pulls it towards him, climbs a few steps, but then stops and turns to look at him.

John almost ends up on him.

"What's up?"

"But I don’t understand the cookies."

"Sorry, what does it means?"

"You're not a baking type of person: you're a medical student with a part time job and you play sports, you don’t have time to cook, your diet consists exclusively of ready-to-eat meals, so why the cookies?"

"Wait, did you spy on me?"

Perhaps there is hope.

"No!” Sherlock replies vehemently. “I don’t spy, I observe and deduce."

"You observe... me?"

Sherlock's lips, yes, those lips that have piqued John's imagination right away, fold in a smile.

"You're an interesting guy, much more than you imagine. So, why the cookies?"

"It's for charity, you know, it's almost Christmas..."

"Really? What day is today?"

"December 23rd. Why, don’t you know?"

"No, I thought we were in October or something," Sherlock answers, and he’s serious, he's not joking. He looks around at the garlands hanging from the windows and at the Christmas lights on the streets, as if he were seeing them for the first time.

"Uh, do you have memory problems?"

"No, I just discovered that inorganic chemistry is an extremely fascinating subject, I began to study it, and time has passed. I got quite caught in it, apparently."

"But... but you're two months behind!"

"Do you want make me believe that something noteworthy happened in the world in the meantime?"

"But… I... forget it."

In a completely crazy way, Sherlock isn’t wrong: nothing extraordinary happened. Of course, this is not an excuse to disregard the whole world, but the idea of having attracted the interest of a boy who seems disinterested in everything, is a good feeling.

"Listen, since I remember what day it is, would you like to celebrate Christmas with me?"

Christ, it's the worst chatting up phrase that ever came to his mind, there's no hope Sherlock will accept.

Instead, the boy smiles again.

"Gladly, as long as you don’t make me eat cookies."

"Why? You haven’t tried them, you can’t know if they are bad."

"But they are, since they just burned to a crisp."

Sherlock raises his head toward John's window, and there’s a thick black smoke coming out. John runs into his flat, cursing loudly and with gusto, but behind him he hears the steps of Sherlock, following him.

Oh well, at least something good came out from that bizarre adventure.


	11. 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 11\. We’re stuck in different cities, so we won’t be together for Christmas. We end up talking on the phone for hours, to the annoyance of our families  
> Mystrade - Established relationship - slice of life - Rating G

Mycroft is extremely annoyed. Not because Sherlock has made jokes about his weight or because he ate all the mince pies (he did both, as usual, and by now he learned to ignore him), but because his brother was right.

Sherlock is not the only one with a tremendous memory, even Mycroft remembers facts and memories with maniacal care in his personal Mind palace, and in one of these memories, dating back a few years earlier, Sherlock asked him how he would know he wasn’t alone. The question implied that Mycroft had no one at his side, no one to be missed, who would make him feel alone.

Now there is, and Mycroft Holmes has discovered what loneliness is.

It's not that he’s having a bad time, he loves his parents and likes spending Christmas holiday with them. It’s that he would like for someone to be by his side, but it wasn’t possible: Gregory had to spend Christmas holidays in Wales, at home of former in-laws. He wasn’t happy about it, but he couldn’t refuse it, otherwise his ex-wife would have immediately called her lawyer saying that he didn’t respect the terms of the divorce and didn’t spend the holidays with his children.

His mother and John's laughter comes from downstairs: this year Sherlock came to the family dinner with his boyfriend, showing off a ring on his finger and a smile that Mycroft had never seen before.

He's happy for him, God only knows if he deserves a little happiness after all he's been through, but the presence of the happy couple has sharpened his loneliness; rationally he knows that Christmas Day is nothing more than a date on the calendar, a day like any other, in many countries of the world is not even celebrated, yet when he sets foot in the house where he was born and raised, happy memories pop up from every corner, and Christmas again has the sweet and rich flavour it once had.

It would be nice to share that atmosphere with Gregory.

He sits on his old bed and digits Greg's number. He doubts that he will answer, Mycroft thinks he is in a hall full of people (his former in-laws are known for giving impressive parties), having fun with his children. Maybe he's playing videogames with Timothy, or he ventured out into the garden to kick a football with Paul.

Instead Gregory answers at the first ring and his voice betrays a smile: he is happy to hear him.

"Mycroft!"

"Is is a bad moment?"

"No, not at all: I am very pleased to hear from you."

Mycroft doesn’t hear chats or music in the background and frowns. "Where are you?"

"Can’t you deduce it?"

"I have very few clues."

"I took refuge in the sewing room that my ex-mother-in-law kindly reconverted to the bedroom for me."

"I see." 

The parents of Greg’s ex-wife have never accepted the divorce and don’t waste any opportunity to point out to him, with an award worthy passive-aggressive attitude, forcing Greg to swallow their spite, if he wants to continue to see his children.

"I needed to get away from those people who talk incessantly about business, stock market and banks."

"What about your children?"

Greg exhales heavily and his voice becomes grim: "Oh, this is the best part, an authentic Christmas surprise: they aren’t here."

"Why?"

"Apparently Anita had throw a tantrum with her mother last week, saying that she’s 16 and couldn’t be forced to spend Christmas with her family, so she's with some friends of her, while my ex father-in-law offered Timothy and Paul a holiday at his expense in Saint Moritz with all their cousins, of course they accepted without thinking twice, and I can’t blame them for that."

"And of course your ex-wife she has accidentally forgotten to let you know they wouldn’t be there."

"Did you think she would missed the chance to make me deal with her mother's blame or her father's sarcastic jokes for a whole night?"

"I'm sorry, it must be an unpleasant situation."

Mycroft repeatedly offered to do something for Greg and that situation, he proposed him to speak with Holmes family lawyer to renegotiate the terms of the divorce, he also thought to undermine his former father-in-law's business, but the policeman never allowed him.

"With my work, I’ve seen too often what happens when there’s a lot of grudge in a family,” Greg once said, referring to his work. “I don’t want it to happen in mine, I prefer to do everything to keep conflicts at the minimum level, even if sometimes it means giving up on some rights."

And he, the champion of manipulators, respected that desire.

Maybe this is one of the reasons why he missed Gregory, because he makes him a better person, reminds him that there are limits, and there's something more important than always winning.

"And how are you doing?" Greg asks.

"My brother is unbearable as usual, after dinner mom will force John to look at old photo albums, and my dad will want to watch again ‘It’s a wonderful life’. It’s a good thing that Christmas comes only once a year."

"I am thinking about simulating an attack of dysentery or escaping through the window."

"I promise you that next year I will find a plausible excuse for both of us to avoid this torture."

"Yet, when I was a child, I loved Christmas: my brothers and I were up all night, too excited to sleep, trying to imagine what gift we would receive, and, because of this, on Christmas morning we were all terribly tired and ended up falling asleep in church during the religious service."

"At least our parents spared me and Sherlock the torture of being at the Christmas Mass."

"I thought your parents were believers."

"But Sherlock isn’t: at the age of five, he decided that God didn’t exist, and every time we took him to Mass, he started to question and challenge what the priest said, so we stopped going to the church."

"I can imagine the embarrassment."

"No, I don’t think you can: the straightforwardness of my brother goes beyond imagination."

"And what do you tell me about you, do you believe in God?"

"No, but I never said anything, I’m not straightforward like Sherlock: he was never afraid to expose himself to support what he thought, while I was always more thoughtful."

"Thanks god, otherwise I don’t know what your poor parents would have done with two Sherlocks."

"MYCROFT! DINNER IS READY!"

Sherlock's powerful voice reaches him, and Greg hears him too, because he laughs.

"Sherlock, I don’t think that your mother meant this when she said 'call Mycroft', you know?" John scolds him.

"Mycroft is not worth the stairs."

"You're impossible."

Shortly thereafter, the doctor climbs the stairs and knocks on the door.

"Er... I think you heard, dinner it's ready."

"Coming, I’m talking to Greg."

"Oh, say hello!”

"And how were you as a child?" Mycroft asks, once John has gone away: they don’t talk often about their past, unfortunately their respective works keep them so busy that sometimes they don’t see each other for days, or are too tired to a long conversation.

"I was the eldest, so I felt responsible for my brothers and was always careful that they didn’t get themselves in troubles or hurt themselves."

"Did your brothers obeyed you?"

"Not always, Michael in particular has always been a rebel, but, generally speaking, we got along and I they obey me, at least on important matters."

Mycroft thinks that Gregory has always had an innate kindness along with his ability to lead a team: that's why his subordinates are loyal to him. If he asked them, they probably would die for him. But this Greg would never ask for it.

Their conversation unfolds through the evening, they talk about the past Christmas days that they remember with more fondness, and even about the bad ones, about the gifts that they liked more, and the ones that have disappointed them.

At one point, Gregory is scolded by his angry ex-wife, who announces that the guests have started their dinner without him, but the policeman lets her know with an icy voice that he will come down when he has finished the call, if he feels like it.

Sherlock, from downstairs, calls him again, saying that their parents and John starved to death as they waited for him, but Mycroft ignores him, and the two continue to talk, canceling the distance that separates them.

"Hey, Myc?"

"Mh?" Mycroft secretly loves when Greg calls him with that ridiculous nickname.

"When did Christmas lose its magic?"

"To me it was when I realized that no man could ever bring presents to all the children of the world in one night."

"How old were you?"

"Four."

"Precocious."

"But I continued to love Christmas for a while, until Sherlock came."

"Look, no one believe this lie anymore,” Greg laughs. “I know you love your brother."

"When did you stop believing in Christmas?" Asks Mycroft, changing the topic: of course he loves Sherlock, but has a reputation to defend, he can’t admit it loudly.

"The year my mother was fired, just under the holidays: I realized that miracles don’t exist, not even at Christmas, and that bad things often happen to good people."

"Believing that if you are good all year long, at Christmas good things would happen to you, will only bring you disappointment."

"I believed it myself for a long time, but then something good happened to me," Gregory says, and Mycroft doesn’t have a hard time imagining his smile as he speaks those words.

"This is... thank you, Greg. It’s the same for me."

"I know. You don’t need to say it."

They keep talking for a long time, and when Mycroft closes the call, he realizes that several hours have passed and the other members of the family have already gone to bed.

He goes down to the living room, where Sherlock has left an empty tray of mince pies, just to spite him, but it doesn’t matter, because the long conversation with Greg left in his mouth a taste much sweeter than any cake.


	12. 12.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 12\. We got into an argument because of something stupid, but I slipped on ice on the stairs. I called you to help me, and our fight was forgotten when you got all worried
> 
> Johnlock - Established relationship - Hurt/Comfort - Rating G

John walked into the flat, greeted Sherlock, threw the jacket on his chair and went into the kitchen.

"SHERLOCK! What did I ask you this morning? "He shouted a few seconds later.

"To buy beehives to start a bee farm on the roof of the building," said Sherlock, lying on the sofa with his hands clasped under his chin.

"What? NO!"

"Mh, yet I remember it clearly."

"That conversation, if it ever happened, was only in your head."

"Oh, that's possible," said the detective, assessing this hypothesis: he often had to talk to his mind John.

"This is everything you have to say? Don’t you care to know what I asked you this morning?"

Sherlock was struggling with an old unsolved murder, which had remained in the archives of Scotland Yard for more than twenty years, and wasn’t happy to be distracted by a tedious and banal question, so he turned on his side and put a pillow on his head, but John snatched it out of his hand.

"I asked you to take out the steaks from the freezer for dinner! But you didn’t do it, of course, and now we have nothing to eat."

"I'm working on a case, I'm not hungry."

"But I do! And I'm sick of being invisible to you."

Sherlock lifted his head and looked over his shoulder: "You know it's not like that, but John, the case..."

John had just been back from a terrifying day at work, he was tired, hungry and didn’t want to hear Sherlock's excuses, so he turned on his heels and left the house without a word: he would go to a very classy restaurant not far from Baker Street, he would have ordered the most expensive dishes, and finally he would have the bill refunded by his boyfriend.

Only halfway from the restaurant, he realized he had forgotten the jacket at home, so he hadn’t the keys or the phone, just the wallet, but he wasn’t bothered, because it wasn’t too cold and could do without the phone for a couple of hours.

A little further, the sidewalk was occupied by workmen for an urgent sewerage repair, and John decided to take a shortcut, passing through a side street, that ran along some garages and warehouses.

He had to go down a few steps and the street lighting was bad, so he went down cautiously, but just on the last step, slipped on an abandoned glass bottle, tried desperately to keep his balance, unsuccessfully, fell on his back and hit his head: his sight blurred and the pain that exploded in his skull made him faint.

When he regained consciousness, he immediately realized that he must have been unconscious for a long time, because he was cold and numb. He raised one hand and carefully brought it to his nape: fortunately there was no blood, and he didn’t feel nausea or dizziness: then tried to get back on his feet, but a sharp stabbing of pain through his back made him shout: he was stuck.

He relaxed his muscles again: perhaps if he lay down without moving for a while, the pain would be diminished enough to allow him to crawl up the steps and reach the street from where he came, to call help. However, a second attempt made him reject that solution: the pain was too bad, he would never have done it.

He wasn’t in a good situation: he hadn’t the phone to call for help, and even if when he got out of the house it wasn’t too cold, at night the temperature would drop a lot, and he was wearing only a sweater. The prospect of staying there all night and being found only the next morning wasn’t good, so he started shouting as loud as he could, but the street where he laid was empty, there were no houses, only stores and shops, already closed at that time of the evening, and the traffic of the overlying road covered his voice.

And yet he hadn’t heard anyone's footsteps.

"Shit" he hissed.

With bad timing, the sky covered with clouds, it started to rain and the temperature dropped further: he seriously risked a pneumonia or a beginning of frostbite, if he remained there; he cried again, but nobody heard him.

Then, when he was about to lose hope, he heard someone approaching.

"HEY! HELP! HELP!"

"John! John, where are you?"

“Sherlock?”

Yes, it was Sherlock... but how did he find him?

"I'm here, at the bottom of the stairs."

Sherlock was beside him in a moment: he took off his coat, laying it on him, and covered him from the rain with the umbrella, while quickly typing 999, asking for an ambulance.

"I feel so stupid," John murmured.

"Your hands are frozen," Sherlock said, taking them between his. "Have you lost consciousness? Do you think you have a concussion? Can you move your legs? Do you feel like throwing up? What can I do?"

John put a finger to his lips to stop that flood of questions.

"I fainted, but now I feel better and I move my legs without problems, I'm just cold and unpleasantly wet."

Sherlock took off his jacket, too, to lie it on John, and rubbed his hands, trying to warm them up. He was pale and his lips were trembling.

"Relax Sherlock, it's less serious than it seems."

"You've been unconscious, it's serious!"

"It's not the first time it happens." Several times, during their investigations, some thug had hit him on the head with the butt of a gun.

"It's my fault: if I had prepared dinner as you asked me, you wouldnìt have to go out."

"You didn’t tell me to take this dark, deserted shortcut."

"It doesn’t matter, I shouldn’t have made you angry. I'm sorry."

"It's over," he reassured him, stroking his hair.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"It’s not true that you are invisible, you are indispensable to me, I wouldn’t know what to do if you weren’t here with me, I would be lost. You know that, don’t you?"

"I know: before, I was angry and I said things that I don’t think, because I'm an old, grumpy man."

"You're not old," Sherlock protested, and John smiled.

"Thanks, it's nice to hear that from a boyfriend who seems to become younger and younger every year."

"Where is the ambulance? It’s taking too long!"

"Calm down, it's only been two minutes."

"No, I don’t calm down! You're hurt."

"I told you it's not serious," John replied, but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t be quiet until he did some tests at the hospital. And besides, if the roles were reversed, he would react in the same way.

"Morons! Yet I told them the optimal route to save time."

"Speaking of the route, how did you find me?"

"When you came out, I thought you were going to have dinner at the restaurant, since you were hungry. Angelo is too far away, and when you're nervous, you don’t want Chinese food, but there's that restaurant on Paveley Street that we've just discovered. You wouldn’t have been outside more than necessary, because you hadn’t your jacket with you, so when I didn’t see you coming back, I immediately understood that something had happened to you."

"So you left the case halfway?"

"You are more important than any case."

John beckoned and kissed him on the lips. "Thanks, love. But we usually don’t take this route to go to the restaurant, how did you know I'd be here?"

"I understood that you had diverted when I saw the roadworks on the sidewalk."

"Extraordinary. One of the many reasons why I love having a detective boyfriend."

"Even if this boyfriend sometimes behaves like an ungrateful idiot?"

"The important thing is that he make amends later."

"When you return home, I will make amends to you in a thousand ways."

"Ooh, I feel like I will like this convalescence a lot."

"And your feeling is not wrong."

In the distance, they hear the siren of the ambulance, Sherlock returned to the upper street to signal where they were.


	13. 13.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 13\. “That dough is for my fucking cookies, if you try to steal it one more time I’m gonna beat you with this spoon!”  
> Johnlock - Established relationship - Smut - spanking - Rating E

When Sherlock came home that afternoon, to his dismay he saw that John had moved all his scientific equipment from the kitchen table, to use it for cooking, as ordinary people did

Terribly dull.

He opened his mouth to protest, but John preceded him.

"I haven’t touched anything, your experiment is intact and, by the way, I don’t want to know what it is, since one of its components is black and stinks like bubonic plague."

"Okay, but where is it?" Sherlock asked petulantly, looking around.

"Upstairs, in my old room: weren’t you saying you wanted to turn it into a laboratory? I did it for you."

It was true that John's room was an unused space, since they slept together downstairs (and they did more than sleep), but Sherlock liked to work in the kitchen and look at John's from time to time, or hear him grumble about the results of football matches.

Maybe he could convince him to follow upstairs when he worked?

He was about to ask, when his attention was drawn to what the doctor was doing, kneading flour, sugar and eggs in a bowl: it was unusual for John to cook, and even more unusual to bake a cake, since their landlady supplied them with slices of cake almost daily.

"Mike gave me some mother yeast and I'm trying to make some cookies."

"Mother yeast? Interesting, just what I need for... OUCH!" Sherlock stretched his hands toward the dough, but John stopped him by pinching the back of his hand.

"No."

"You don’t even know what I want to do," Sherlock pouted, rubbing his aching limb.

"Yes I know: you want to use it for your experiment, the one I don’t want to know what it is."

"The fact is that this dough would be the ideal ground..."

"I repeat it: no. This dough is for my fucking cookies, if you try to steal it one more time I’m gonna beat you with this wooden spoon," John stated, lifting the tool in front of his face.

Sherlock seemed to surrender and threw himself on the couch, where he continued to pout; John shrugged, knowing that he would stop acting like a child, sooner or later. He finished kneading the dough and then covered the bowl with the film, because he had to rest at least one night.

The next morning he got up early to make cookies; he left the room on tiptoe not to wake Sherlock and went into the kitchen, but the dough was no longer in the bowl: during night it had been laid on the table, and  **someone** must have done something really, really horrible to it, because a forest of mushrooms had grown on it. A hundred small multicolored fungus, of the strangest colours and the most alien shapes, some of them even bioluminescent.

A masterpiece of science, no doubt, but that housed on its biscuit dough.

The same one that he had forbidden Sherlock to touch, but of course his boyfriend didn’t listen to him.

John inhaled heavily from his nose: okay, Sherlock had asked for it, so he would have kept his threat. He retrieved the wooden spoon from the cutlery drainer and marched to the bedroom; the door swung open and Sherlock jumped, suddenly waking up.

“I warned you, Sherlock.”

"John, what...?"

"Don’t pretend not to understand! I'm talking about my poor dough for cookies."

"Are mushrooms already sprouted? They did it faster than I expected." Sherlock pulled the covers aside and stood up, but John grabbed him by the waist and dragged him back onto the bed.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock screamed, trying to wriggle away.

"Do you dare to ask? What did I tell you about my dough?"

"I know, but my experiment..."

"Enough with the excuses, I don’t care!"

Taking advantage of his military training, he threw Sherlock on his stomach, holding him down with a knee on his back, ignoring his fussing, lowered his pajama bottoms, and beat him on both buttocks three times, with childlike satisfaction; the first moments he was so taken by the punishment that he didn’t realize that Sherlock had completely stiffened under him, then he noticed his quick breathing and his fists clenched on the sides of his face, and he stopped.

Had he hurt him so much? Yet he didn’t believe he had hit him so hard, and Sherlock hadn’t complained and hadn’t ask him to stop.

"Sher...?"

Sherlock's curls were sweaty and a flush had climbed up his neck, and John wondered if he liked it.

Almost in a trance, he put the spoon on the bed, opened his left hand and lowered it on his buttock; Sherlock lifted his head from the mattress and let out an unmistakable moan, which didn’t fail to make John feel a thrill of excitement.

He licked his lips, briefly stroked Sherlock's back where it was naked and he spanked it again, leaving his handprints on that firm flesh; Sherlock abandoned all pretense of composure and groaned again, rubbing the hips on the sheets.

He liked, then, and John was enjoying that unusual experience too: he was usually an attentive and delicate lover, they were a fresh couple and still hadn’t experimented too much, but it seemed that in sex, like in science, the best discoveries happened by chance.

"Again," Sherlock protested when John stopped, and he pleased him, alternating light slaps and stronger ones, using both hands, excited by the sharp noise of the spanking, the tingling on the palms of his hands and the absolutely indecent way Sherlock was writhing beneath him, vocalizing his pleasure, bending his legs and curling his toes.

John stopped again and Sherlock turned to him, almost furious, but whatever insult he wanted to utter, died in his throat when he saw that John lowered his pants and slapped him on the buttocks with his erection.   
John bent over him, licked his reddened skin and then blew on it, causing delicious goose bumps, then reached for the bedside table, took the lube and prepared him hastily.

"Hurry up John," Sherlock begged with his deep voice.

"Don’t talk now," John warned through clenched teeth, "or we will not do anything."

Sherlock, however, continued to groan vocally and John spanked him again, and penetrated him, without even bothering to undress, crushing him on the bed with his weight, blocking his wrists, and kissing his sweaty neck, enjoying the salty taste of his skin and the unmistakable smell of his body.

There was something erotic about having sex almost completely dressed, about wishing him so much that he didn’t even indulge in some petting, about feeling the warm skin of his buttocks against the pelvis.

It was quick and intense, an explosion of pleasure that washed over him after a few deep thrusts inside Sherlock and left him breathless; he let go one wrist to touch and bring him to orgasm, but the sticky moisture he felt on his fingers told him that Sherlock had already come, without touching.

"Oh…"

"Mh-mh" the detective nodded.

"Was it so good?"

"Are you fishing for compliments? No need."

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed with contentment as John kissed him on the neck and stroked his reddened buttocks.

"It was unexpected," he said, clearing his throat.

"An interesting discovery," Sherlock confirmed.

"What? Didn’t you know that you liked... er... being...? "John blushed and bit his lip.

"Spanked?” Sherlock suggested, without a ounce of shame. “Your modesty is completely out of place now, do you realize it?

"Shut up," John mumbled, slowly biting his thin skin.

"And anyway, no, of course I didn’t know. If any other person had tried to spank me, I would have thrown them out of the window. Many times."

John smiled and petted his curls: he always felt a swell of pride when Sherlock reminded him that he was the first and only man in his life; then, struck by a thought, he rolled on his back and snorted, exasperated.

"What?" Sherlock asked, stretching on the bed like a cat.

"Why every time I want to punish you, I end up to reward you?"

"Because I'm a genius."

"Idiot" the doctor murmured fondly.


	14. 14.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 14\. Egg nog, mulled wine, and other seasonal beverages that cause unintended consequences  
> Johnlock - First kiss - Rating G

As a doctor, John knew that getting drunk was wrong: it was bad for the liver, caused gastritis, dehydration and headaches, and was often the antechamber of chronic alcoholism problems.

Nevertheless, he could only say that getting drunk with Sherlock that Christmas Eve was the best decision of his life.

 

They had already drunk a couple of whiskey before returning home, to celebrate the happy resolution of the umpteenth case, that had seen an innocent cleared of murder charge.

It was a case that John had taken to heart: the man accused of the crime was a former soldier like him, and wasn’t coping well with the return to the civilian life, and because they managed to clear his name quickly, John was euphoric that evening. So, when they got back home, John proposed to have a drink to celebrate.

"But not another whiskey: since it's almost Christmas, we could make mulled wine."

"John, please: mixing some good red wine with sugar, oranges and spices is a crime."

"I swear that in another life you were a sommelier" John grumbled: Sherlock showed the most absolute indifference towards food, but became a fundamentalist when it came to choose the right wine.

"What do you propose?"

"Eggnog."

"Typical of you, wanting something that’s more like a custard than a drink."

"John Watson, are you insinuating that I'm greedy for sweets?"

"Precisely."

"That's not true, you confuse me with Mycroft."

"Want we to ask Mrs. Hudson what happens to the sweets in her fridge?"

Sherlock growled under his breath, but John could tell that he wasn’t really angry, they were just joking.

A quick smile on Sherlock’s lips confirmed his theory.

This didn’t mean that he would leave him the last word.

"My eggnog is better than your watered wine," he proclaimed.

Oh, so Sherlock wanted to play? Great, two could play the game.

"I accept the challenge!" John answered, and took a dusty bottle of red wine from the cupboard.

They both began to work on their drink with a concentration that, seen from the outside, was ridiculous. They themselves realized it, because when they stretched out their hands at the same time to get the sugar, they burst out laughing.

In a short time, the flat was filled with strong, spicy smells and the alcohol evaporating from the pots was so strong that they had to move away and cover their noses so as not to be intoxicated.

"It’s too hot in here," Sherlock complained, taking off his jacket and rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows.

John looked at the whole operation, stunned, and wondered if Sherlock wore shirts so tight on purpose, just to upset a poor former soldier.

He ran a hand over his face and returned to pay attention to the wine.

 _"You still haven’t drink, and it’s already gone to your head, Watson"_ he scolded himself.

Sherlock, completely unaware of his little drama, neared the stove to pour the ingredients of his eggnog in a small pot, then put an arm around John's shoulders, freezed in surprise, and bent over his saucepan, sniffing the air.

"My liqueur smells way better."

John pursed his lips, contrite, repeated Sherlock’s gesture (even if he had to stand on tiptoe to put his arm on his shoulders, damned giraffe) and then snorted: "It's not true, yours tastes like an omelette, it's not inviting at all."

He looked up at him and saw that Sherlock had blushed and couldn’t do anything to mask it.

Two could play the game, of course, but the game was starting to get dangerous.

Not that this stopped them.

"Ah... it’s boiling," John said, pointing to Sherlock’s cream, bubbling in the pot.

Sherlock took it from the fire, poured himself a cup of liquor and went to sit in a corner of the couch, leaving enough room for John.

The mulled wine would have to boil a little more to incorporate the taste of the spices, but John discovered he had more desire to reach Sherlock, than to obtain a perfect wine.

He brought the pot and also the bottle of wine with him (in case the mulled wine was too bad to drink), and saw that Sherlock had already finished his first cup of eggnog.

"Hey, go easy."

Besides, they had not eaten anything. Shit, he should have ordered at least some take away.

"I hold the alcohol very well," Sherlock proclaimed, though his too high voice told the opposite. "Let's see what you can do."

"As you wish."

Like a patented idiot, John drank whole glass in one gulp: the hot wine burned his tongue, and the vapors of alcohol made his eyes water.

"Smooth," Sherlock chuckled, pouring himself another cup of eggnog.

"Oh, shut up! And, for your information, my mulled wine is delicious."

"Also my liqueur," Sherlock replied and, to prove it, dipped two fingers into the cup and brought them to his mouth, sucking them greedily, and John was no longer sure they were playing a game. He had no idea what they were doing, and if on one hand he didn’t mind, on the other he was terrified.

"The color of my wine is more beautiful," John said, when he found his voice again.

"Yes, it has a nice color," Sherlock admitted. "What wine did you use?"

John squinted at the label, muttered something that looked like _"damn French"_ and passed the bottle to Sherlock.

"Chateau Cantemerle" declaimed the detective in a dim voice. He must have found something extremely hilarious, for he began to giggle, abandoning his head on the back of the chair, uncovering the long, pale neck.

The view troubled John, who took another sip of spiced wine; he was thinking that his lips would fit very well on that neck, and he felt hot.

In the meantime Sherlock didn’t stop laughing and even infected John, who chuckled with gusto for no reason.

God, they were really drunk.

"Hey Sherlock, why are we laughing?"

"Chateau Cantemerle" Sherlock repeated, and John laughed louder: with the right blood-alcohol level the name was very funny.

"Frenchmen!” John snapped “Couldn’t they have more normal names?”

"No, no, it's not the reason why I’m laughing: this wine costs 400 pounds a bottle and you've made it boil and filled it with spices. You've completely ruined it."

"John Watson, wine ruiner: I like it," the doctor shouted, raising his glass.

"You should write it on your blog," said Sherlock, finishing his second glass of liquor.

Meanwhile, John poured himself another ladle of mulled wine into the glass, but he spilled it on the carpet, because of his trembling hand.

"Oops, now the carpet is worth 400 pounds, too," Sherlock laughed, and John had to put his glass on the table not to overturn it for too much laughter.

"Wait, why in our house is there a wine that costs as much as all the furniture put together?" John asked, when he had regained his breath.

Sherlock smacked his lips and tilted his head to one side, in a way that John found adorable, and mumbled something about a gift from some member of the House of Lords.

"Oh, then maybe I shouldn’t have used it."

"Nah, it doesn’t matter, I didn’t even remember it was here."

John poured himself another ladle of wine and then frowned, as if struck by a thought.

"Hey, hey, wait: if this is a challenge for the best drink, I should drink yours, and you mine."

Sherlock had still his head tilted back, and the curls that fell over his face made him look like an angel in a sixteenth-century painting. He kept his eyes closed for a few moments and, when he opened them to look at John, they were glassy.

"It could be a solution," he murmured, but he seemed to speak to himself, then leaned toward him and licked his lips; John freezed, he didn’t even close his eyes, swallowed noisily and held his breath.

"Sherlock, what...?"

"Your lips were dirty with wine."

Sherlock was still close to John's face, and his breath tickled his now wet lips.

Uninhibited, John wanted another kiss, a real kiss this time. IHe felt tempted by Sherlock and that was a great opportunity.

"And I? How can I taste your liqueur, mh?" John asked, running his fingers through his hair. Oh... how and when did it end up there?

With some difficulty, Sherlock handed him his cup and John dipped a finger: he was about to bring it to his lips, when his tipsy brain offered him a more tempting solution.

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm a genius," John said proudly; he ran his finger over Sherlock’s lips as if it were a lipstick, then rushed to lick and devour them: the sour taste of the wine mingled with the sweet one of the liqueur and that of their saliva and, despite all the alcohol he had drunk, John knew in that instant that he was already a slave of that taste.

Sherlock's big hands encircled his face, caressing his hair, while John's were tight on his shirt to keep him from moving away, even if Sherlock didn’t seem to want to move.

"Wow..." the doctor whispered as their lips parted. He clung to the back of the sofa, because the room was spinning around him, and he was sure it wasn’t only the effect of the wine, but also of that spectacular kiss.

Sherlock looked at him breathlessly, put his fingers to his lips, then licked them, and finally whispered: "Drink again, John."

"I don’t know if it's a good idea."

"Drink, please."

"Why?"

Sherlock suddenly became hesitant, almost lost, like only the drunkards could be.

"I know I can never have anything else from you, give me this at least."

John wanted to protest, tell him it wasn’t true and ask him why he thought that, but his mind was too cloudy for such a long sentence, so he obeyed: he took another sip of wine and let Sherlock kiss him again, passing his arm around his shoulders and dragging him with him on the sofa. His eyelids were closing, down seemed like an excellent idea.

A moment later they were both sound asleep.

 

John awoke the next morning with all the symptoms of a bad hangover, that reminded him why getting drunk was a bad idea; he had a strong headache, a dry, kneaded mouth, a burning stomach, and all his muscles aching from dehydration and having slept on the couch.

He opened his eyes slowly and the first thing he saw was very similar to the manna in the desert: a glass of fresh water resting on the table with two aspirins, that made him feel better immediately.

The proofs of the previous night's reverly had vanished, and Sherlock was in the kitchen washing pots and glasses in the sink. That scene was wrong, because normally Sherlock would never worry about dirty dishes, but what had happened the night before between them wasn’t normal, had altered forever their relationship.

However, John didn’t think it was a bad thing. Indeed, it had been a pleasant revelation.

"Ah, you're awake. How do you feel?" Sherlock asked, in a tone that was too quiet to be honest.

"Good. And you? Did you drink something to rehydrate yourself?"

"Yes, I took two aspirin and I drank some tea," he replied, without even turning to look at him, behaving in a completely normal way.

If John would have pretended not to remember because of the hangover, Sherlock wouldn’t say anything, continuing to play the role of roommate and best friend.

But the fresh water had only rinsed away the stale taste of wine, certainly not that of Sherlock's mouth, and John wanted to get drunk again on that taste.

He took a dishcloth from the back of the chair and neared Sherlock, who stiffened visibly.

"You know," John said casually, "you must have a very low opinion of me, if you think I forgot what happened last night: I was in the army, I drank a lot more than that."

Sherlock put his hands on the edge of the sink. "What do you remember?"

"Everything, until the last syllable you spoke."

"I see. I just wanted to offer you an escape route."

John now understood Sherlock’s words from the night before: _"I know I can never have anything else from you, give me this at least."_

Sherlock believed that for John last night was just a moment of weakness, an alcoholic craziness to forget, and he had desperately looked for a way to keep their friendship intact, at least. John’s heart tightened.

"What if I don’t want an escape route?" John asked, certain.

"But you never... you're not..."

"Sherlock,” John put two fingers under his chin and forced him to look at him, “Last night we were both uninhibited, but on my side, I was honest."

The look that Sherlock gave him back was still confused and unconvinced, so John caressed his cheek with his thumb.

"Do you know what they say?" He asked sweetly.

Sherlock shook his head slowly.

"In vino veritas" John continued.

A smile made its way on Sherlock's angular face: "Your Latin accent is atrocious, but you're right."

"Were you honest, too?"

"Like I’ve never been in my life before."

"Good," John concluded, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him, this time lucid, and more convinced than ever of his sentiments.


	15. 15.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 15\. You love the Christmas season, but _____ absolutely hates it. You spend the day forcing him/her to be festive.  
> Mystrade - Established relationship - Humor - Rating G

"I'm sorry: the meeting is protracting more than expected, don't wait for me for dinner."

**"Tell me something that I don’t know."**

The abrupt message that Mycroft receives from Greg makes him understand that he’s in trouble.

He can’t blame his companion: this is the last of a long series of dates or dinners canceled at the last minute.

Usually Gregory is sympathetic, he knows what Mycroft’s job entails, but even the most patient man gets tired, in the long run.

"Next Saturday I will dedicate the whole day to you."

**"Like last month?"**

"There was a sudden crisis."

**"There's always something."**

"I promise you that Saturday will not happen."

**"All right, I want to believe you. Don’t be too late and eat something."**

Mycroft puts the phone in his jacket pocket and returns to pay attention to the meeting: detaching from work for one day will do well for both and they relationship. They will sleep late, have breakfast in bed, stay home all day, and relax: Greg will watch one of those terrible costume dramas he likes so much, and he will read a book, then they’ll cook something together and, in the afternoon, more relax.

His multitasking brain has already planned the whole day, so he reacts with an annoyed grunt when Saturday morning Gregory wakes him up at eight o'clock.

"We must not get up before ten o'clock" Mycroft mutter.

"Are you joking? Get up, we’re already late."

"Late for what?" Mycroft asks, finally opening his eyes: Greg is already fully dressed; he put aside jacket and tie and is wearing jeans, a comfortable sweater and sneakers.

"For the day you wanted to dedicate to me: I'll do the program today."

"Where do we go?"

"It’s a surprise. Oh, I hope you have comfortable shoes."

"But Greg, it's almost Christmas, are you sure you want to go out?" Mycroft protests.

"Absolutely yes."

London under Christmas is a hellish pit and if Dante Alighieri had seen it, he would have undoubtedly dedicated a circle of Hell to it: the streets are a flood of people entering and leaving the shops, the traffic goes crazy to the point that even the army couldn’t control it, and it's damn cold.

Initially Mycroft thinks Gregory wants to take revenge for all the dates he canceled, but one look is enough to understand that it’s not like that, that his companion loves Christmas and wants to involve him in the spirit of the festivity. 

No matter how.

Even if Mycroft hates that period.

Or maybe exactly for that.

Anyway, Mycroft gave his word, he can’t retreat now, so he gives up to having breakfast in bed, and gets ready quickly.

When he takes the car keys, Greg stops him: "No, no car."

"What?"

"That's why I asked you if you have comfortable shoes, let's go on foot. You live downtown, and besides traffic is terrible in this period, it’s better if we walk."

"My program was better," Mycroft mumbles, making sure Gregory doesn’t hear him.

 

The first stage of that torture leads them to choose the Christmas tree: a corner of the plant nursery has been transformed into a labyrinth of firs of all sizes, and Mycroft loses sight of Greg after just five minutes, finding himself surrounded by numerous families with screaming children, fighting to take the most beautiful trees; he wanders around for almost twenty minutes before finding Greg again. He’s standing in front of a fir tree and looks at it, pleased.

"Ah, you’re here. Where did you go?"

"Looking for you," Mycroft blurts out.

"What about this tree? I like it. The label says it is Norwegian."

"I strongly doubt it, this plant, like many others, comes from Chernobyl."

Greg would think that he’s mocking him, before remembering he's talking about Mycroft. Mycroft doesn’t mock.

"How can you say? Do you have a degree in botany?"

"Actually I have it, but it's the level of radiation to tell me where they come from," Mycroft replies, showing Greg the screen of his cell phone.

"Why am I not amazed that you have a Geiger counter on your phone?” Greg rubs a hand on his forehead. “I guess they were imported illegally: I have to warn the central, and goodbye to our Christmas day."

"No, don’t worry, my men will take care of it."

"Are you sure?"

"I promised to dedicate you the whole day."

Radioactive plants would have been a good excuse to go home, but he doesn’t want to ruin Greg's day and the plan he made for them.

"Are you sure we can leave like this?"

A child behind them screams at the top of his lungs, and Mycroft takes Greg by the arm to drag him out of the nursery. Quickly.

"Ihe radiation level of those plants is very low, I promise it's not harmful."

 

The second stage takes them to the park to listen to a harrowing Christmas chorus of children. They’re all off-key, a torture for his delicate ears, accustomed to the grace of classical music; there is not a single member of the chorus able to keep a note for more than two seconds and everyone sings on his own, without worrying about how their comrades are singing.

Mycroft isn’t even sure that they are singing the same song, but when he turns to Gregory to express a sharp judgment on the artistic performance, he realizes that Greg is watching the children with a huge smile on his face.

"When I had their age, I was singing in a chorus and my mom was running it: it's one of my favorite Christmas memories."

Mycroft swallows his insults and resigns to listening in silence other Christmas songs destroyed by the kids.

 

After eating a miserable fish and chips on a Hyde Park bench (Greg didn’t want to go to the restaurant, claiming they would lose too much time), Mycroft is dragged to the ice rink.

He thinks that he'll just have to stand up in the cold and watch Greg skating for a while, but then he hears him ask for two pairs of skates, not one.

"No!"

"You promised to dedicate the whole day to me, remember?"

"But I don’t know how to skate."

"None of the people on the rink know."

In fact, the ice rink is full of people who stagger, hold to the railing, move around cautious and uncertain, or spend more time sitting on the ice than standing, but it’s still a physical activity and Mycroft really would like to avoid it. "Drag me on that rink and the day will end at the A&E."

"Don’t be a drama queen like your brother."

And here's how the British Government finds himself on the skating rink, firmly clinging to Greg’s arms, who tries to teach him the first steps.

"You know, it would be much easier if you left the umbrella out of the rink, instead of using it like a walking stick."

"I can’t, first of all this umbrella costs more than a thousand pounds, and then there is a sword hidden in the handle. It would be irresponsible of me to leave a weapon unattended."

Greg stops and looks at him, gaping.

"My god, it's really there! I thought John was joking when he told me."

After a while Mycroft's step becomes smoother, and even if he’s not having fun, he’s not afraid of ending up in a hospital anymore. Not far away, two men collide and start to insult each other, so Greg is forced to intervene and show them the badge to avoid they start fighting seriously.

While Mycroft cautiously approaches the edge of the rink, a group of kids, much more experienced than him, darting past him several times, giggling like crazy: it’s quite clear that their intention is to throw him to the ground.

However, Mycroft is used to more sophisticated ambushes: when they were young, Sherlock often enjoyed making him ambushes and his little brother had much more inventive than these four kids; when one of them passes close to him again, Mycroft hooks him with the handle of the umbrella, and the boy ends up against his friends, making them fall.

"I saw you, you know?" Greg says, appearing at his side: a quick glance is enough to Mycroft to understand that he is barely holding back laughter.

"An unfortunate accident."

"Yeah, for sure."

They return the skates and Mycroft mentally prepares himself for the next torture of that day.

"Where are we going now?"

"Home."

"Why? It was you who said that the whole day was for you. Did I do something that made you angry?"

"No, not at all." Greg dips his hands in his coat pockets and shrugs: "You hate all this: people, confusion, Christmas... and I'm not a sadist, I will not force you to do anything else. I had fun and I really appreciated the effort you made today for me. And then,” a mischievous smile makes its way on his face “If I'm not mistaken you too had programs for today: are we still on time to do something?"

"Something essential, yes," Mycroft replies, and calls a taxi.


	16. 16.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 16\. Ice skating, cutting down your own tree, hanging fairy lights, and other ways to injure oneself in December (and the consequences of same)  
> Mystrade - Established relationship - Crack - Rating G - This story can be considered the continuation of the previous one

Mycroft looks at his pocket watch with a frown, as if time has just made him a serious, personal wrong: it's three minute past 3 p.m., and his two helpers haven’t arrived yet.

They had to be there at 3 o'clock to decorate home for Christmas, because he wants to surprise Greg, after realizing how much he cares about celebrating it in the traditional way.

So there must be a Christmas tree, garlands and fairy lights hanging around the house, but they’re already late on his rigorous roadmap, and this is unacceptable.

Another ten, interminable minutes pass, and finally Mycroft's phone rings.

"I hope you have a valid justification for your delay, and for ‘valid’ I mean a meteorite that hit your car and prevent you from being on time."

"I'm sorry, boss,” answers a voice that seems to come from the afterlife “but neither I, nor Michael can come."

"Has the enemy take you? Are you imprisoned?" This would explain the suffering voice of his minion.

"No, we both have the ‘flu, we can’t move from home."

This is extremely annoying: George and Michael were the only free minions, all the others are engaged in some mission, and certainly he can’t ask them to return from Russia or Panama to hang the Christmas decorations.

They wouldn’t be on time.

He discards the idea of asking Anthea (she could decorate a Christmas tree only if it was drawn on a tablet), and his brother (he would do a horrible job just out of spite), and understands that he has no other choice: he will have to do it himself.

After all, he is leading, from the shadow, the government of one of the most powerful States in the world, hanging two balls on a fir tree or some light around the house will be a easy task for him.

The fir (not radioactive) is delivered to his house shortly thereafter, and immediately the first problem arises.

"The tree doesn’t have a base," Mycroft points out to the delivery man.

The other man looks at the delivery note and shrugs: "It wasn’t requested."

"Well, I thought it was obvious: how can the tree stand without a pedestal?"

Was it really necessary to write down something so obvious? Jesus, the goldfish out there are worse than he thought.

"It can’t: you have to make one of it, it's fun. I always do it."

That said, the man goes back on the van, leaving him with a fir tree of almost two meters leaning against the wall.

Maybe he can leave it like that and tell Greg that it's an alternative idea?

No, it will never work.

That idiot delivery man said it's easy to build a base, so Mycroft sits confidently in front of the computer and looks at many tutorials to figure out how to do it.

Ten minutes later he turns off the computer and puts his chin on his hands worriedly: he has never moved a finger at home, he has always called a professional for any slight problem, and every idea for the base of the tree appears so complicated that he would need a tropp of architects to make it happen.

In the end, he retrieves a large wooden box from the cellar, fills it with soil from the garden and plants the tree inside, compacting the soil as much as possible to prevent the tree from tilting (without much success). Then he battles with the rebellious branches that, once they’re loose from the harness, move around like they’re alive, slip under the collar of his shirt and fill his back with needles.

The result is atrocious, the tree is more tilted on a side than the Leaning Tower, some branches are broken, there is a long trail of dirt that goes from the front door to the living room, and he is more sweaty than when he ran for a hour on the treadmill.

He needs a shower.

Christmas decorations 1 - Mycroft 0

He postpones the decoration of the tree to a more propitious moment (now his hatred towards the plant is too much fiery) and decides to hang the lights around the house, but he realizes immediately that those who designed the building weren’t Christmas fans: where there is a comfortable surface to hang the lights, there is no power outlet, unless you use an extension cord and have electric wires running all over the floor, with the risk of tripping over at the first occasion.

The only right spot to hang them seems to be on the top of a high bookshelf; he takes the ladder, climbs up to the top and spread out the thread of lights, but they slide forward and fall; he tries again twice without success, until he has the idea of hooking the cable around the corner of the bookshelf: it’s very deep, so he is forced to stand on tiptoe and lean precariously to his right.

However, the laws of physics don’t like his solution: the ladder tilts to the opposite side and falls against the window glass, shattering it, and suddenly Mycroft finds himself with his legs in the void.

He clings to the furniture with all his strength, looking for another foot support and fortunately he finds him in one of the shelves and manages to hoist himself over the bookcase.

Those hours spent doing push ups had paid, avoiding a ruinous fall and a run to the hospital, but the decoration of the house was a disaster.

Christmas decorations 2 - Mycroft 0

Game, set, match.

"Never again" he mumbles, resting his forehead on his crossed arms, and that's how Greg finds him when he’s back home: freezing because of the broken window, squatting on the bookshelf like a big red cat who climbed up a tree and now doesn’t know how to get down.

"Don’t say anything."

Greg raises his hands and tightens his lips, in the titanic effort not to laugh.

"As you wish."

"And don’t laugh!"

"This is already more difficult!” Greg answers, recovering the ladder. “Hold on, I come to your rescue."

Oh well, he made him laugh, which was his goal, even if things didn’t go exactly as he wanted.


	17. 17.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 17\. Let’s end this year differently than we did the last one when everything sucked  
> Johnlock - First time - AU post S3 - Rating E

The phone rang and Mrs. Holmes raised an eyebrow, reading the name of the caller.

With a hint of anxiety and hoping nothing happened, she answered, "John?"

"In person. How are you? Am I bothering you?"

"No, I was just reading a book."

"Ah well, because I need to talk with you about something."

"Did something happen to Sherlock?"

"No, no, he's fine, but I'd like to talk to you about him."

The woman leaned back in her chair, now calmer.

"Go on then, tell me."

"Well, I know Sherlock doesn’t come to see you often..."

Sherlock's mother laughed politely: "Oh, I know that."

"And I also know that Christmas dinner is one of the few occasions he comes to visit you."

"Mycroft always finds a way to blackmail him."

Even John snorted a laugh.

"So what I'm going to ask you may seem selfish, and it probably is, but I'd like you not to invite Sherlock this Christmas."

"Oh, is he in such a bad mood right now? We’re used to it, John."

"No, it's not for that. Indeed he’s quite happy. At least I hope."

"This is a great news, but I don’t understand what it has to do with spending Christmas Day with us or not."

"Well... this year I would like to be alone with Sherlock at Baker Street. I promise you we'll see you for New Year's Eve, but there's one important thing I want to do for him at Christmas. It's a kind of anniversary... no, it's the exact opposite, it's a new beginning... and I..." John stammered and panicked, and Sherlock's mother took pity on him.

"I can’t deny that your words have made me curious, but if it's so important to you, it's okay."

"Yes, it is. And it's important for both of us, I want to say it."

"Then Merry Christmas to both of you."

John closed the call with the tremendous feeling of having just outed the two of them with Sherlock's parents, but he had to offer some kind of explanation for his request.

However, sooner or later they would find out, if things were going as he hoped.

And, for once, John had the feeling that it was like that, he had the feeling of having left behind his past, studded with mistakes and poor choices. 

He had made clarity within himself and took a step in the right direction: a week ago he had kissed Sherlock.

They were both sitting on the couch, John writing down about their latest case on the blog, and Sherlock flipping through a medical book, the television in the background, two teas and a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of them. They had stretched out their hands at the same time, like in the worst teen romantic comedy, they had looked at each other and, in a moment of absolute clarity, John had realized that it was THE moment.

The right moment, the moment he had been waiting for a long time, probably the moment that Sherlock was waiting for, too, given the hint of a smile that appeared on his lips.

He had put a hand behind Sherlock's neck, giving him time to withdraw, if he wanted to, but Sherlock had just closed his eyes, shivering, and John had kissed him gently on his heart-shaped lips.

From that night on, they were proceeding with small steps.

They had talked about them for a long time, then there had been some other kisses, but, above all, an increased proximity and physical contact.

Now John accompanied his “good morning” with a caress on Sherlock's hair, before John left the flat to go to work, Sherlock always arranged the collar of his shirt or the tie, the armchairs had been abandoned, and they sat on the couch, where Sherlock could rest his head on John's legs as they watched a movie.

John was cautious, he didn’t want to ruin a single thing, besides he knew that for Sherlock it was the first, true relationship with someone; however, the fact that they were now a couple in every sense, wasn’t the only reason John wanted to spend Christmas alone with Sherlock.

The previous year, Christmas had been a horrible. It had been the worst of all of John's life, even worse than the one spent at Camp Bastion to mend wounds while around him  exploded a hell of bombs and bursts of machine gun.

It had been the Christmas when he had tried to save the unsalvageable, even if, inside himself, he knew that he hadn’t forgiven Mary and would never really do it; it had been the Christmas when he had turned his back to Sherlock in a cowardly way, staying behind, leaving him alone to face the consequences of the murder of Magnussen, despite Sherlock killed him only for John’s sake.

A year later, now that it was all over, his marriage swept away like dust in the wind when more lies and rot had emerged, now that he had returned to where he belonged, he wanted to give Sherlock a special Christmas, to delete that previous, horrible one, and to give both the new start they deserved.

 

Sherlock probably suspected something, the missing invite to the Christmas dinner from his parents was too weird, but he didn’t say anything, not to spoil John's surprise.

On Christmas morning Sherlock awoke with the scent of tea and the clink of dishes balanced on a tray; he stretched, emerged from under the covers and opened his eyes: as he had deduced, John had brought breakfast to both of them.

John sat on the mattress with a small moan of satisfaction, and Sherlock approved the sight: they still didn’t sleep together, but Sherlock hoped to change the state of things as soon as possible; on one hand he understood John’s caution in starting a new relationship, after what he had gone through, but on the other hand he wanted everything, now: they had waited too long.

"Merry Christmas" John said holding out the tray, then kissed him on the forehead, on his closed eyes and then on the lips.

"Merry Christmas," Sherlock replied, lingering with his lips on John's jaw, touching his throat with his fingertips in a suggestive way, but John took his hand and brought it to his lips.

"Later, let's have breakfast now."

Sherlock settled with his back against the headboard and took a sip of tea: it wasn’t their usual Ceylon, but a richer and more robust Earl Gray, with a marked aftertaste of bergamot, psysalis and rose, a special blend that wasn’t sell in tea bags: John must have ordered it specially for him; to John it didn’t make much difference to drink a good tea or one taken at the vending machine, it was Sherlock the one with a fine palate. 

Then he bit a corner of the toast and the taste of butter and strawberry filled his mouth. It was delicious.

"The jam is still warm."

"I made it this morning," John said, biting a slice of bread: his face clearly said that it was too sweet for him, but he had made it for Sherlock's taste.

"John," Sherlock said, taking his hand. "I... thank you."

John intertwined his fingers with his and shook his head resolutely.

"You deserve this and more, and I’m the one who should thank you for have allowed me to live here again, without asking me for any explanation."

"I didn’t  _ allow  _ you: I wanted it. And as for explanations, we both know it."

"Yes."

"Tell me," Sherlock said, in a lighter voice, "What’s the program for the rest of the day?"

"I thought about preparing a hot bath for both of us and then, if you agree..." he stopped, taking the same scarlet color as the strawberry jam, and looked alternately at Sherlock and at the bed they were sitting on.

Oh, it was that step.

Sherlock set the breakfast tray down on the floor and kissed John behind his ear.

"I agree, totally and wholeheartedly," he murmured in a deep voice. "So much so that if you had waited a bit longer, I would have jumped on you, Dr. Watson."

John choked with the last sip of this tea, then poked Sherlock in his side, making him yelp ungracefully.

"You're a menace, Sherlock Holmes."

 

John filled the tub with hot water and invited Sherlock to join him.

They were wearing the dressing gown, but when they looked at each other, they let it slip on the flood, standing naked for the first time one before the other. Time and occurrences had left marks on their bodies, and the sight of the bullet scar on Sherlock’s chest made John sad for an instant, but Sherlock rested his forehead on his and closed his eyes.

"Forget it."

"I can’t, I'll never be able to, Sherlock."

"It is what it is, but it's part of the past."

"Okay," the doctor nodded slowly, then entered the tub, his back against the tiles, and Sherlock settled between his legs, sinking into hot water to the neck, with his back against John’s chest.

John hugged him and kissed him on the neck, took his shampoo and lathered his hair, gently massaging the scalp, and Sherlock moaned in an almost indecent way.

John licked his lips and massaged him with more force: he had already guessed that Sherlock liked to have his head stroked by John, but that was beyond his imagination, and opened up very interesting scenarios for the future.

After having washed his hair, John poured the bubble bath on a sponge to wash his body, but Sherlock shook his head.

"I want to feel your hands."

"Yes," John replied hoarsely, slowly biting his earlobe and letting his hands slide over his pale skin, caressing each dip, tracing his muscles, teasing his hard nipples, testing with his teeth the strained tendons of his long neck.

Sherlock had clung hard to John’s thighs, and his breath was quick and erratic; he leaned his head on John’s shoulder, offering him his mouth, and John greedily took possession of it.

One of John's hands went up from his chest to his shoulder, gently massaged it and then descended along his arm, until he intertwined his fingers with Sherlock’s ones.

Distracted by John's tongue that explored thoroughly his mouth, Sherlock didn’t notice that John had put the other hand on his crotch; the first contact with his erection was so electrifying that he involuntarily arched his back, splashing water everywhere, and then fell heavily into the bathtub.

"John!" Sherlock sobbed, and his voice was shaking with desire.

"You're wonderful,” John panted. “Come here, I need you, I need to feel you."

He put a hand on his shoulder and Sherlock turned, throwing his arms around his neck; their erections rubbed together, eliciting a sharp moan from Sherlock, and a guttural growl from John. The former soldier seized them with one hand, while with the other one he raised Sherlock's face, to be able to look at him: his lips were swollen, his neck was red where John had rubbed his stubble, his eyes were glassy and unfocused.

"John..." Sherlock repeated, as if his vast vocabulary had been reduced only to his name. He was pushing rhythmically his pelvis against him, and squeezing his shoulders so hard that the next day there would be bruises.

John twisted his wrist and rubbed the palm of his hand against the swollen and sensitive glans, making him sob, never taking his eyes off his face; Sherlock felt his heart naked and exposed under that intense gaze, and instinctively tried to hide his face against his neck, but John didn’t allow it.

"I want to look at you when you come, I’ve dreamed to, I’ve tossed off thinking about it" John whispered, close to the orgasm too, and those words alone were enough to take Sherlock to ecstasy; he sobbed and dropped heavily on John, who came shortly after with a high pitched cry.

John's thin lips rested on Sherlock’s temple, slowly whispering words of love and affection to him; he held him close, stroking his back, until the water became cold, then they dried, and went to sit on the couch to watch an old movie.

Sherlock fell asleep almost immediately in John's arms, and finally the last ghosts of the past year vanished, erased by the love they felt for each other.


	18. 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 18\. I’ve left all of my holiday decisions to the last minute; what could possibly go wrong?  
> Hinted Johnlock - Crack - Rating G

Molly ran into the laboratory and put down two shopping bags in a corner.

"I know, I’m late. Sorry!" she said to Sherlock, already bent over the microscope.

"Four bottles of bubble bath, three hand creams and five... no, six soap bars: there will be a cut in the supplies of body products in London I'm not aware of?"

"Did you understand it only from the noise of the bags? Incredible."

"Yes, I know, but I still don’t understand why you did stock all these products: are you developing a compulsive hoarding disorder? In this case I must inform you that often these disorders are the antechamber of much more serious psychoses, such as-"

"No, no!" Molly interrupted with a nervous laugh: good god, trust Sherlock to always think the worst. More and more often she thought he had dodged a bullet, letting go of the crush she had had on him. "They're just some Christmas presents I bought for my colleagues: a shop near my house is having sales and I saved some money," she explained.

"Molly, it’s still September."

"Christmas comes in a flash,” She answered, starting the autopsy. “Do you have already decided what to give to your friends?"

"Obviously not: this is a case is a 7 and requires all my attention."

"Watch out, time flies: if you don’t think about it now, you will find yourself short of ideas and maybe you will not find what you are looking for anymore."

"It’s not a problem, John deals with these things and then we divide the expenses."

Molly was disappointed to know that all the gifts she had received in those years were not from Sherlock, but from John. Anyway a part of her had imagined it. Yes, she had definitely dodged a bullet.

"And what about John?” she asked after a while, while she weighed the lungs of the corpse, "You can’t let him choose his present."

"I gave him a particular sexual experience last year, and John really liked my idea."

The lungs slipped from Molly's hand, smashing on the floor with a disgusting squishing noise, while the girl's cheeks reddened violently: why she never learn to keep her mouth shut?

Once he had the results of the autopsy, Sherlock left the laboratory, thinking about Molly's words: he couldn’t give to John the same gift this year, it would have been dull (and anyway they had sex regularly, it wouldn’t be a real gift anymore).

All right, he would have thought of another gift, but certainly not three months before: there was all the time in the world and he was a genius, there would be no problem.

 

He thought about John's gift only at the end of November, when the first Christmas lights appeared in London. 

He frowned at a smiling Santa Claus doll on the sidewalk: it was that period of the year already?

Perhaps Molly wasn’t wrong when she said that time passed quickly, but there was still an month before Christmas, there was no reason to be alarmed. And then some workers had found three corpses buried in cement during some renovation work in a gallery of the Tube, he had no time for presents.

 

The third time it occurred to him that he still had to find a present for John, the matter had become much more pressing, because it was mid-December. Moreover, he was in Frankfurt for one of Mycroft’s missions, and every time he followed the suspect, out of the corner of his eye he saw tourists loaded with packages, smelled the gingerbread, and heard Christmas music. It was as if everything was plotting to remind him that not only he hadn’t even thought about what John would want for Christmas.

With dismay, he realized that he hadn’t the faintest idea of what to give to his lover, and the panic that climbed on his shoulders made him lose sight of the suspect a couple of times.

Although appearances told the opposite, John was a man with extremely difficult tastes: he wasn’t interested in mud and dirt, didn’t collect poisons, toxins or human skulls, even if he was a doctor he said many times that he didn’t want anatomical models or skeletons, and he had so many sweaters that he could open a shop.

Anyway, he was a genius and even if he was running out of time, he was still sure he would have a brilliant idea, sooner or later, so he put the problem aside again and focused on the mission.

After all, it would have been embarrassing to have to explain to Mycroft that he had let the suspect escape because of a Christmas present.

 

It was the evening of December 23 and Sherlock had no more time and, even worse, hadn’t any idea of what to give to John. Why did he think that procrastinating the decision for so long was a good idea? Now he was in trouble.

All right, desperate times call for desperate measures.

He got up from his chair, smoothed the folds of his jacket and took a screwdriver.

 

The next morning Sherlock walked into a big shopping mall to buy a new laptop to John, after having irreparably tampered with the old one (yes, he recognized that it wasn’t an entirely correct move, but at least now he could give him a nice present).

The electronics store was at the bottom of the mall, and to get there, he had to pass by a clothing store, a sports shop, and a perfumery.

Not an easy task, given that in front of each store, there was a kilometric line of people.

He sighed, annoyed: why did people waited until the last minute to buy presents? He was justified, because finding a gift for John wasn’t easy, but for the mass of ordinary people out there it was much simpler. They shouldn’t have been there!

He tightened the coat around himself, like if it was an armour, and jostled to gain some personal space in the crowd, but the feat proved to be harder than he expected: some mothers had formed a kind of fortress with their children's strollers, and when Sherlock sidestepped it to one side, a lady chose that moment to move back and passed on the feet with the stroller. Twice.

Near the sport shop he stopped to point out to the manager (a patented idiot… how the hell did he get the position?) that some guys were stealing the most expensive merchandise right under his nose. He usually didn’t bother with such minor crimes, but the manager's blindness was too much irritating.

Finally, in front of the perfumery, another fine specimen of idiot stopped him, accusing him of wanting to jump the line and get into the shop before him and his girlfriend.

"I know the scoundrels like you" the man said, and Sherlock lost his (already tiny) patience.

"Oh, please! You haven’t a single functioning neuron, you don’t know anything, otherwise you would have noticed that your girlfriend is cheating on you, and that she stays with you only for your money."

It took almost an hour to quell the resulting fight, which involved almost all the people in the line.

John wouldn’t be happy about his black eye, it would require some explainations.

Finally Sherlock reached the electronics store.

And paled: the line there was ten times longer than in front of the other shops, it was physically impossible to serve all the customers before the closing time, and even when he could enter the shop, there would be nothing left to buy.

Not to mention that they couldn't ask him to wait for hours in line without doing anything: he would have gone mad long before.

No, all those people had to disappear quickly, and when a security guard passed by him, he thought he had found the ideal solution: two gunshots in the air and would be the only customer in the store.

 

Sherlock never understood why John refused to pay him the bail, making him spend Christmas day in jail.


	19. 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 19\. “I thought you said you knew how to wrap presents!”  
> “Well I never said I knew how to wrap them well!”  
> Johnlock - Established relationship - Humor - Rating M

When Sherlock came back home, after spending the day at Barts, he found John sitting on the floor in the living room, surrounded by rolls of wrapping paper.

"What are you doing?"

"What are  **we** doing,” John corrected him, “Or rather, what we are going to do: to wrap Christmas presents for our friends."

"I don’t remember agreeing to help you."

John folded his arms to his chest.

"You did it implicitly, since it's more than a month that I do the dishes and the laundry, so now you owe me this."

"But John, wrapping presents is boring," Sherlock whined.

"I don’t care!"

"And then, I’m not good at doing it."

"I’ll do it, I just need you to help me with the tape and the wrapping ribbon."

Sherlock snorted, making his disappointment clear, but John was adamant about the task, so he sat cross-legged on the floor.

"Let's start with this."

John spread the wrapping paper on the floor and took a cylindrical metal box.

"What are these?"

"Baci di Alassio,” John said in a broken Italian. “They are Italian biscuits, I got them for Mrs. Hudson."

"How could you think they were a suitable gift? She bakes biscuits, she’ll think it's a criticism to her cooking."

"Number one: it's Christmas Eve, there's no time to change anything; number two: our landlady doesn’t bake these particular biscuits; and number three,” he pointed his finger at Sherlock, “Don’t dare criticize my choices, since you didn’t want to come with me to buy presents."

Sherlock snorted again, but said nothing, because John was right.

John cut a piece of wrapping paper, but it was too small and didn’t cover the box completely; he discarded it, thinking of recycling it for a smaller gift, and cut another one, but this time it was too big and the and the result was horrible, so he threw it over his shoulder.

He picked up a new roll of wrapping paper, but it slipped from his hands and unrolled to the door and, after that, John could no longer roll it perfectly as before, then threw it in a corner of the room with irritation. 

Sod with it.

Then John cut a piece of tape to close the package, but it bent on itself, wrapping around his finger. He freed himself with difficulty and cut a second piece of tape, but this one fell on the carpet, collecting hair and dust, and becoming useless; finally he cut a third piece with a growl and many unrepeatable words, and attacked it to the wrapping paper.

The gift seemed to have been wrapped up by a serial killer, but at least it was closed.

The roll of wrapping ribbon was in a corner of the floor and seemed to stare at him, but John ignored it: the task had already been quite complicated, a self-adhesive bow was more than enough.

He sighed with relief, as if he had just finished an open-heart surgery, and wiped the sweat on his forehead: bollocks! it was only the first gift, they still had many to do.

Meantime, Sherlock had watched him silently with folded arms.

"Do you want to give me a hand, yes or no?" John finally snapped.

"You didn’t ask me anything, and then you said you knew how to wrap presents” Sherlock replied, deadpan.

John looked at the waste of paper and tape, and at the numerous boxes still to be wrapped.

“Well, I never said I knew how to wrap them well!”

Sherlock laughed in an almost sadistic way, then his lips twisted into a mischievous smile that promised nothing good.

"In fact, I think you're much better at unwrapping gifts, especially when they're wrapped up in clothes."

"Sherlock..." John warned, but without any effect, because his evil boyfriend had other ideas; with one arm Sherlock swept away paper, ribbons and presents, and crawled up to John, flexuous as a panther.

"John, I'm bored."

"I already told you that I don’t care."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, licking his lower lip. John followed the movement with his eyes and suddenly the wrapping of presents no longer seemed such a pressing matter.

"Sherlock, no... we have to finish here," he protested weakly, trying to stand his ground.

"Don’t you want to test my theory?" Sherlock asked, kissing him behind his ear, soft but implacable.

Sherlock loved when they played like this, when John opposed resistance, even though they both knew what would happen then.

"I... mph..."

He shouldn’t succumb so easily to Sherlock's lips on his, to the clever tongue that teased his palate, to the teeth that tormented his jaw, to the tempting sight of his pale neck, and his back bent in a suggestive position.

Damn, his mind wasn’t slave to Sherlock to the point of losing his mind every time his boyfriend kissed him!

His body, however, didn’t hold the same stoicism of his mind, and didn’t care about standing any ground, since his hands were already freeing Sherlock from the constraint of his shirt, while Sherlock's fingers lowered the zip of his trousers.

"Mmh, he seems to like my idea," Sherlock said, brushing two fingers on the tip of his penis, already dripping precome. The traitor wasn’t making much effort to reject the advances of his lover, indeed, he was doing everything to get noticed.

"Sher..." John hissed.

"You can stop me if you want," Sherlock murmured before lowering his head, and John gave up, lying on the floor; he closed his eyes and licked his lips, already anticipating the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth, but nothing happened.

John opened his eyes and looked at him, exasperated: "What now?"

"I'm waiting for you to tell me what you want me to do."

"I'll explain it right away," John growled, grabbing his hair.

 

Their clothes were added to the wrapping paper and tape scattered on the floor.

The smell of sex impregnated the air and the silence was broken by their harsh breaths.

Sherlock raised himself on his elbows, looking at John with the proverbial smile of the cat who ate the canary, and John just didn’t have the strength to protest, not after the spectacular orgasm that had left him breathless.

"See? I was right, unwrapping presents is much, much better than wrapping them."

"Shut up." John murmured affectionately, ruffling his hair.


	20. 20.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 20\. I was cold, so you gave me your jacket but now you’re cold too. So I suggest we hug instead.  
> Johnlock - First kiss - Rating G

"Stop!" John shouted, but obviously the scammer didn’t obey. It never worked.

The former soldier saved his breath and tried to reach the man who had stolen the money from a charity.

During Christmas holiday.

That thought alone was enough to multiply his anger and make him run faster.

He reached and grabbed him by the shoulder to stop him, but the man turned out to be a hard bone and attacked, throwing a couple of punches that hit the target. John dived on him and the two rolled on the ground, fighting furiously. For a moment John believed he got the upper hand, having locked both his wrists, but the scammer played dirty, hitting him with a knee in the crotch; John let him go, writhing in pain, and the criminal managed to escape.

_ "Sherlock will be furious," _ John thought once the pain passed. A gust of icy wind made him shiver, and only then he realized that, in the scuffle, had lost his jacket, which had ended up in the middle of the road. He didn’t have time to retrieve it, because a van passed at full speed and hooked it, dragging it away with it for a while, until there was only a pile of rags at the intersection of two road.

"'Fuck!" John cursed: not only he let the criminal escaped, he had also lost his jacket, and it was damn cold that night.

A few seconds later, Sherlock came running from the same intersection, stopped to look at the ruined garment and then shouted his name, looking around frantically.

"I'm here," John replied, raising an arm. Sherlock ran to him and John prepared to face his disappointment.

"I'm sorry, but Garrison ran away and I didn’t see where he went. But we have..."

Sherlock stopped him, grabbing him by the arms and dragging him under the light of a street lamp.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"I took a knee in the last place I wanted, but I'm fine,” John reassured him. “Listen, about Garrison..."

"That's your jacket," Sherlock interrupted again, and seemed strangely agitated. John didn’t understand why: it wasn’t a present from Sherlock, nor it was new.

"Ah yes, I lost it in the scuffle, and ended up in the middle of the road, a van ended the job."

"Ah… You'll be cold."

For some inexplicable reason, Sherlock wasn’t interested at all in pursuing the fugitive, nor did he seem angry for his escape.

"Yes," John admitted. "It's freezing tonight."

Without a word, Sherlock took off the Belstaff and placed it on John's shoulders, who was surprised by his gesture: he never parted from that coat.

"Thank you."

Sherlock shrugged, then phoned and booked a cab.

"We have nothing more to do here, let's go home."

"Wait, we must warn Lestrade that Garrison has escaped."

Sherlock looked at him as if he had remembered only then that they were on a case and a criminal just escaped.

"Right." He took off a glove and typed a short message for the policeman, then turned off the phone.

"Are you okay?" John asked: his lack of interest in the case was really strange. Until two hours earlier he said it was the best case of the last two months.

"Yes," Sherlock replied evasively, but John didn’t believe him, and watched him out of the corner of his eye, realizing almost immediately that Sherlock was trembling, though he tried to hide it in all ways, rocking back and forth on his feet, with his hands sunk into his trouser pockets.

"Now you're freezing."

"It doesn’t matter, the cab will be here in moments."

"I don’t care, I don’t want you to get sick."

“There’s only one coat, what do you suggest we do?"

John didn’t want to die of cold, but he had an idea: the Belstaff was big and Sherlock was very thin, so it could keep both of them warm. With a slightly embarrassing solution, there was to be said, but that would have prevented them from catching a ‘flu while waiting for the cab.

"We could hug each other."

Sherlock considered his proposal, then bit his lip.

"John, I don’t know if..."

"For God's sake, Sherlock! You're trembling so much that I can hear your teeth chattering."

He took off the coat and handed it back to Sherlock, then told him to put his hands in his pockets and hug him: as he had thought, it was big enough to wrap both of them.

Out of politeness, John kept his arms at his sides, barely placing his icy nose on Sherlock's scarf to stay warm; he closed his eyes and inhaled Sherlock’s spicy cologne, sighing with contentment.

Oscillating on his feet, he leaned on Sherlock's chest for a moment, and realized that his friend was still shivering. It couldn’t be because of the cold, now that they were wrapped in the heavy woolen coat; his doctor's instincts made him lift two fingers on Sherlock's carotid to get the pulse: his heart was beating too fast.

"Okay, now you're worrying me: you're not okay."

"Do not be ridiculous, John!"

"Ridiculous? You are almost tachycardic."

"It's just..." Sherlock said, then he bit his lips and closed his eyes, frustrated.

"What?" John urged him.

"It's just shock, it will pass soon."

"Why should you be in shock?"

John really didn’t understand: nothing disturbing had happened. Sure, he had a fight with a scumbag, but it happened all the time to both of them, it was part of their work, and Garrison wasn’t even armed.

He gave Sherlock a questioning look, silently begging to help him understand.

"Before, when I arrived at the intersection, the first thing I saw was your jacket in the middle of the street, and it was so shabby that for a moment I feared you met the same end."

"Oh Sherlock, I'm sorry I’ve frightened you." John's arms instinctively circled his back; he rested his fingertips between his shoulder blades and moved in slow, circular movements to reassure him and release the tension.

Sherlock hugged him tighter then, and leaned forward to rest his face on John's shoulder: the tension had made him exhausted.

"It has been horrible," Sherlock whispered, as if he was confessing  a secret, and John's heart tightened. 

"I'm sorry," he repeated again: he should have noticed right away that there was something wrong in his behavior. It was strange that he had panicked, but John knew better than anyone that, deep down, Sherlock was human and capable of have strong feelings, even if he insisted on denying it.

"Is that how you felt when I...?" Sherlock left the sentence pending, but John immediately understood what he was referring to: his fake suicide.

"Mh," he just nodded.

"Forgive me, John."

"It has been years, and I forgave you a long time ago, trust me," John replied, but Sherlock was still stiff against him, and shuddered.

"Hey, it's all right," he assured him, but Sherlock shook his head, still leaning on his shoulder.

"No."

"Please calm down: I'm fine, you're fine, and, in the end, it’s the only thing that counts."

John turned to rest his face against Sherlock's scarf and held him closer, careless that some passerby could see them and think they were lovers.

Lovers.

The term didn’t seem wrong at all: they weren’t lovers in the physical sense of the term, but Sherlock was the most important person in John's life, the doctor no longer had doubts about it. And, seeing Sherlock's visceral reaction to a possible injury to him, now he knew that Sherlock felt the same for him.

Finally Sherlock had stopped shaking, and John was a bit sorry about it: he would soon regain his usual composure and pretend nothing happened, he would probably be ashamed of that moment of weakness, so John prepared to stop hugging him, but when Sherlock lifted his face from his shoulder, he looked at him almost solemnly.

"You called me only few seconds after I saw your jacket on the street, but to me it was an eternity, and I thought of all the things I've never told you, and…”

“And…?” John parroted, eyes full of hope.

“And, if you let me, I would like to say it now."

Fearing to ruin the moment, John just nodded, and when Sherlock leaned his forehead on his, he closed his eyes, letting their lips speak.


	21. 21.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 21\. You and _______ have a Christmas couple cook-off with _______ and ______ (insert another couple here), and things get messy.  
> Johnlock - Mystrade - Crack - Rating G

"We'll be back for dinner, and I expect the cookies for the charity party to be ready," Mrs. Holmes said, before leaving home with her husband to go to watch a musical at the theater, with a couple of friends.

Mycroft and Sherlock sighed loudly, while Greg and John reassured their parents that there would be no problems at all, then closed the door.

"Does Scotland Yard hold classes to teach how to lie?" John asked, barely holding back a chuckle.

"Curious, I was going to ask you the same thing about the army."

They knew that the task would be difficult: the Holmes brothers didn’t usually get along, forcing them to bake something for Christmas together was like asking for a catastrophe. They turned, ready to convince their lovers to collaborate in the making of cookies, the hard way, if necessary, but they had already vanished.

"If they went out into the yard to smoke, tonight Sherlock will sleep on the couch," John announced, marching toward the back door. "But Mycroft should stop smoking in his presence, it makes harder for him to quit."

"Don’t put the blame on Myc," said Greg, who wasn’t an health fanatic like John, “Sherlock is an adult, not a child, he takes his own decisions."

The two brothers were in the yard, not to smoke, but on the phone, looking for an excuse to escape that commitment: Mycroft was asking Anthea if she was sure that there wasn’t any diplomatic crisis around the world, and Sherlock was bribing Dimmock to get the manila file of an old case.

Gregory and John exchanged a nod of understanding, and took their phones.

"Greg, you can’t do that! What if World War III broke out while we’re baking?"

"John, a life could depend on the resolution of this case."

"A case from 1911? You two, in the kitchen without making a fuss!" John dusted off his captain's voice and pointed his finger to the house.

 

"What kind of cookies do we want to do? I think it’s a nice idea to make two different kinds," Greg said, leafing through a voluminous recipe book.

"Whatever is the choice, the result will be only one: edible cookies, our, and poisonous, theirs," Mycroft said.

"It's the exact opposite," Sherlock muttered, looking up at the ceiling.

"You can’t even make yourself a toast!"

"Why, can you?"

Gregory pulled Mycroft aside and John did the same with Sherlock.

"Please!” John begged with clasped hands, “Can you behave like adults?"

Sherlock looked so betrayed and offended that John feared that he would be the one ending up sleeping on the couch.

"You heard him, he did nothing but provoke me."

"Then prove yourself more adult than him, and ignore him."

"Mycroft,” Greg began, “An hour: I assure you that it takes no more than an hour to bake some cookies, then we can leave."

"All right, choose the cookies."

"We can make Danish butter cookies, they seem easy, while Sherlock and John..."

"We will do them too!” exclaimed Sherlock, “So we'll see which ones are edible."

"Today you really want to cry. little brother."

“Guys, it’s not a challenge” Gregory pointed out.

“Yes, it is!” both brothers answered at the same time.

"What did we just say?" John muttered, covering his face with his hands: god, what a nightmare!

"I'm afraid this is the highest degree of maturity we'll have here," Greg concluded. "Okay, let's make the same biscuits, it will be like a derby: Arsenal against Tottenham."

John answered with an annoyed grunt: Greg was an Arsenal fan, he a Tottenham fan, and in the last derby his team had lost in worst way possible.

They arranged bowls and ingredients on the table and started to work on the dough.

For five minutes there was a holy silence, then Sherlock ran his index finger on the recipe book, and Mycroft chuckled.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing... I’m just thinking that’s typical of a goldfish to follow the recipe slavishly."

"Actually, it's the best way to make no mistake" John interjected, but Sherlock had now picked up the gauntlet.

"John, let's add some chocolate chips."

The doctor scratched an eyebrow: "Er... I do not think it's a good idea."

But Sherlock had already added the new ingredient to the dough.

"Okay, forget it" John sighed.

"Greg, get some orange peel," Mycroft ordered.

The policeman frowned: "Into Danish butter cookies? Are you sure?"

"John, let's add also ginger."

"Greg, get some nuts too."

"John, the mint extract."

"Greg, turmeric."

"John, cloves."

The two brothers couldn’t stop barking orders to their companions, asking for the strangest ingredients, until John silenced both by putting his hands on their mouths.

"Enough! We're cooking biscuits, not a Harry Potter potion."

The two brothers tried to mumble something, but John raised his voice: "No, stop! You're giving us a terrible headache."

Sherlock and Mycroft went back to work, while Greg silently begged John to hurry, because the situation was deteriorating.

Sherlock's scientist mind was helpful: he was very precise in dosing the ingredients and in using the pastry bag to shape the cookies, while Mycroft’s and Greg’s one looked much more rough even before baking them.

John took the tray with cookies to put them in the oven, but when he walked behind Mycroft, he slipped on a piece of butter and fell on the floor, overturning the tray and hitting his back.

Sherlock was at his side in a moment and shouted at Mycroft.

"You did it on purpose!"

"It's not true, the butter fell when I was cutting it, and I haven’t noticed it."

"I don’t believe you!"

Sherlock jumped up and, out of spite, overturned the tray of cookies of Mycroft and Greg.

"Sherlock, stop behaving like a child! Mycroft said he did not do it on purpose!" Greg shouted, defending his lover.

"Ah, I wouldn’t stake my life on it,” John muttered, standing up with a grimace. “That reptile would be capable of boycott us."

"The image you two have of me it’s moving."

"Your reputation precedes you" said Sherlock and John in unison.

"You're overreacting!" Greg insisted.

John folded his arms to his chest, standing before him.

"Not at all: Mycroft is treacherous and slimy, he behaved exactly like Wilshere in the derby, when he kicked Eriksen without being seen by the referee."

"Eriksen has stumbled on his own feet, because he is a wash-out who plays in a team of wash-outs."

"And Wilshire is a thug, not a soccer player: if he hadn’t stopped Eriksen, the outcome of the match would have been different."

"You wish!"

"We will see who laughs at the end of the season. In January, new players will come to strengthen our team."

"A miracle wouldn’t be enough to improve Tottenham."

"Oh, and in the meantime, what's your team doing? Selling his players because its accounts are empty."

Sherlock and Mycroft had no idea what their lovers were talking about, and let them argue alone, coming back to blame each other for the loss of cookies.

Obviously they didn’t bake anything, and when Mr. and Mrs. Holmes came back home, they were still yelling at each other: John and Gregory, after having fighted about football, came to fight about rugby and then cricket, while Mycroft and Sherlock were digging up incidents occurred between them thirty years earlier.

Therefore, the Holmes' contribution to the local charity party were drinks, plastic cups and plates, and paper napkins.


	22. 22.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 22.“You can’t spend Christmas alone!”  
> “I have no one to spend it with.”  
> “You have me.”  
> Johnlock - First kiss - Light angst - Post S4 - Rating G

"Yes, yes, I'll take care of it, I've already found the place and a catering service, we just need some good music. The decorations, you say? In my opinion everyone could bring something. Hm? No, don’t worry, I'll call the others."

John closed the call and immediately started a new one.

He had been going on like this for hours, since he had known that one of his friends, Bill Murray, had just been discharged from the army: therefore his former comrades had decided to organize a Christmas party as a welcome back, which was also an opportunity to meet all together after a long time.

John couldn’t wait to meet his old comrades again, and was at the forefront of organizing the party.

Walking back and forth in the small living room, he passed several times in front of Sherlock, seated in his chair, as if he weren’t there.

It wasn’t anything new.

Sometimes Sherlock wondered why John was still insisting on going to see him, if he didn’t even listen to him when he was at Baker Street. To what or to whom he was thinking about, Sherlock wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but when he told John about a case, he looked at him without saying anything, as if he was thinking about something else.

Perhaps, as he was a scrupulous doctor, he came only to check that Sherlock took care of himself, that he ate and slept enough and didn’t start to take drugs again.

About this last point, Sherlock couldn’t blame him, given his past, but he was sick of being considered a child unable to look after himself.

This wasn’t what he wanted to be for John.

But he would never have had what he wanted, it was useless to continue thinking about it.

Finally, John finished his round of phone calls and gave him an apologetic smile.

"It's something we decided at the last moment and there are a lot of details to organize."

Sherlock didn’t answer: he didn’t care about that party, as he wouldn’t be there, and didn’t bother to hide his indifference.

John stood in front of him, his hands resting on his hips and looked him straight in the eye.

"It's almost Christmas!" He exclaimed with a vehemence that let it be clear that there was a hidden meaning behind his words.

It was almost Christmas, so what? That festivity came every year, and Sherlock really didn’t understand what there was so special or different this year. On the contrary, he wasn’t in the mood to celebrate anything, and he communicated it to John with a shrug that, for some incomprehensible reason, made him so enraged that he left Baker Street without saying a word.

Sherlock lit a cigarette.

 

Christmas Day came, and John passed by Baker Street to say bring his present to Mrs. Hudson; Sherlock heard them talk briefly, and then John climbed the stairs.

When he saw him lying on the couch, he grimaced, as if he were disappointed by him.

And Sherlock hadn’t even blew up anything or caused leaks of toxic substances, recently.

From his point of view he had behaved, given his mood.

"I see you're not going to follow my advice."

Sherlock searched briefly in his Mind Palace: he didn’t remember any John's advice (not any that was worth keeping in mind), so he looked at him, confused, and this increased the exasperation of the former soldier, who took his phone out of his pocket and handed it to him.

"It's Christmas Day and you're here, lonely and miserable. Call her!"

Oh, that advice. The advice that highlighted how little John understood his feelings (and his sexual orientation). That's why he had erased it from his mind.

Now it was also clear to him why John had been angry with him days before, when he had shouted him that Christmas was coming: because John thought Sherlock should have a party at Buckingham Palace and confess his feelings to Irene Adler in front of everyone.

He was really fed up with that, so he replied seraphically that no, he wouldn’t call her.

"Why don’t you want to listen to me?” John cried, putting the phone in his hand. “What will you do when it is too late and you lose her?”

Sherlock sat up and tossed the phone across the room angrily, sending him crashing against the mirror above the mantelpiece.

John started, shocked by the sudden act.

"What's wrong with you, are you crazy?"

"I don’t want to call her, is that clearer to you?"

"How can you talk like this? You saved her from the Taliban and continued to exchange messages with her all these years."

"If you had known that someone you knew was in the hands of those cutthroats, would you have let them die?"

"No, of course not," John murmured.

"And tell me, in these years have you stopped to exchange messages with Mike?"

"No, Mike is a good friend, why should I stop talking to him?"

"You have your answer, then."

John stammered something incomprehensible, stunned, because all his hypotheses about Sherlock and Irene had just disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"Don’t you want to call Molly, then?"

That was John Watson: conductor of light, but also one of the most obtuse people on earth.

"Do you have another phone that I can throw against the wall?"

"I just want to see you happy, don’t you understand?"

"Very noble of you, but, for your information, nor Irene Adler nor Molly Hooper are the right candidates to perform this task. I thought my indifference to them was a sufficient answer, but apparently I must be clearer: I don’t want a relationship with a woman, when I feel no attraction to her, sentimental or romantic."

For a few moments there was an absolute silence, then John ventured to ask, "Just them, or...?"

"No, of course I'm talking in general terms."

John covered his face with one hand and laughed without mirth.

" _ I don’t understand. _ I really should have it written on a shirt. "

"I wasn’t always clear on this, and I apologize for your phone," Sherlock continued, calmer, "of course I'll buy it back."

He hadn’t lose his temper like that in a long time: he was sorry he had screamed at John, who wanted just his good, in the end, but at the same time it was as if a weight had be taken off his chest: at least now John would stop insisting on that idiotic idea to couple him with a random woman.

"No, you don’t have to apologize. I’m the one who behaved like an assumptive idiot, and I guess my insistence has annoyed you a lot, "John replied, and he was really mortified.

"Now we have clarified, it's all right."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

No, it wasn’t at all, and they both knew it: there were still many unsaid things between them, but that discussion had been so sudden that neither of them knew how to carry it forward.

Sherlock stood up and picked up the shards of glass to throw them in the garbage can, while John stood there, looking at him and elaborating the new information about him: he was quite shaken, as if his world had suddenly tilted on its axis.

John believed that, when Sherlock had one of his dark mood, he was pining for that woman. That was the reason why he had insisted so much to make Sherlock phone her.

But now he knew he was wrong about everything... no, not everything: Sherlock was gloomy, sad, melancholic, John wasn’t wrong about this, but if he wasn’t pining for a woman, who was he thinking about? There were no other important people in Sherlock’s life, there was only...

He.

John Watson.

Was it possible...?

"You'll be late for your friend's party," Sherlock pointed out, interrupting his thoughts.

"Come with me!"

Sherlock looked at him in surprise at the sudden proposal, but shook his head: "I don’t know anyone but you, and I'm not in the mood to celebrate."

"You can’t spend Christmas alone!"

"I have nobody to spend it with."

"You have me!" John said quickly.

Sherlock shook his head: John didn’t really believe what he just said, probably said it out of empathy or pity, or because he wanted Sherlock to be happy, because it was forbidden to be sad at Christmas, or something, but certainly Sherlock hadn’t him, hadn’t had for a long time.

"I wish it were true, John, you don’t know how much, but it’s not,” he murmured, still crouched on the floor to pick up the glass, and when John opened his mouth to protest, he dismissed him, “It's really late, you better go."

And, shortly thereafter, the front door of Baker Street closed again.

He needed another cigarette.

 

The party was great, the quality of catering was excellent, everybody was liking the music, and Bill was moved by their surprise.

A complete success.

Yet John hadn’t fully enjoyed it, his mind kept returning to the conversation he had with Sherlock; he went out onto the balcony, leaned against the balustrade, jingling the ice of his non-alcoholic drink (it wasn’t the right night to get drunk) and ran a hand through his hair.

He was so stubborn in explaining to Sherlock what would make him happy, to tell him how to live his life, and who he should date, that he hadn’t stopped to wonder what Sherlock really thought or wanted.

Of course not, because John Watson had decided that a fuck with Irene Adler would make Sherlock happy, he even got pissed seeing his stubbornness in not wanting to call her.

It didn’t surprise him that Sherlock had tossed away his phone, in fact, it was a miracle that he hadn’t done the same with him.

John lectured him about how a romantic entanglement would have completed him as a human being, but he couldn’t even see what or who Sherlock had in his heart.

He was pathetic.

Sherlock had swept away the ideas that John had about him with the strength of a tornado, as he always did.

At that point, John had thought that if a female company didn’t made him happy, maybe he could have done it? John really wanted to see Sherlock happy, make him happy if he could. If he had never thought of a relationship with him and hadn’t come forward, it was only because he didn’t believe Sherlock was interested.

John had been sincere when he had shouted  _ "you have me" _ , because, despite all that they had gone through, and the painful sorrow that had driven them away, Sherlock was still the most important person in his life.

But Sherlock hadn’t believed him, and he could not blame him for it: pushing him toward another person wasn’t the best way to show him how much he cared about him, and instead of making him happy, he had made him even more miserable.

Perhaps the idea of getting drunk was not so wrong.

"That's where you were hiding," Bill said, patting him on the back.

"Sorry, I'm afraid I'm not a great company tonight."

"Are you joking? You don’t have to apologise. After what happened to your wife, it's normal. In fact, I want to thank you for having organized almost everything by yourself, despite what you’ve been through. I appreciate it"

It wasn’t Mary the one John was thinking about, he hadn’t thought about her for a long time, but apparently, he gave the impression of being still in mourning, and this said a lot about how deep was the bond between him and Sherlock.

"No,” he confessed. “I was thinking of another person."

"Is this person alive?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you here and not with her?"

John almost laughed: Bill was saying almost the same words he had said to Sherlock.

Perhaps, all this time, he would have to tell them to himself, looking in the mirror.

In the end, he really laughed.

"I feel so stupid."

"What are you doing here? Move, go."

"But the others..."

"I'll handle it, but you owe me a beer and the story of how the evening ends."

 

John took a cab and went back to Baker Street; it was already late, but the lights on the first floor was still on.

Sherlock was playing the violin, but stopped when he heard John’s footsteps on the stairs and was surprised to see him.

The air smelt like tobacco, but John did not even try to scold him.

"You left early. Boring party?"

"No, it was beautiful, but I didn’t enjoy it, because I kept thinking about something else, and there was a more important thing I had to do."

"John..." Sherlock seemed to seriously consider to jump out of the window to avoid the forthcoming conversation, but John stood his ground: it was too important.

"Before, you said that Irene or Molly can’t make you happy: am I wrong, or is there anyone else who can do it?"

Sherlock waved the bow of his violin in the air.

"It doesn’t matter."

"Instead it does,” John pressed him, “Please, answer me."

"Yes," Sherlock admitted, surprised by his insistence: why was John still caring about his happiness?

_ "Maybe because he loves you," _ said a voice inside him.

_ "Not as I would like." _

_ "Wait, you can’t still draw a conclusion. Listen to what he has to say." _

"Is this person close to you?" Rhetorical question by now, but John couldn’t be wrong, not on this.

"So close that sometimes I think I can touch him, but not..." Sherlock looked at him hesitantly, then lowered his head.

"Yes, you can."

"I don’t think so."

"You are wrong! And before, you were wrong too: it’s not true that you have nobody. I am here, here for you, not just at Christmas, but always. If I pushed you to someone else, it's only because I thought you'd be happy. I really thought you weren’t interested in me, I had put that possibility aside many years ago.”

Sherlock's eyes widened, then gave him a sad smile: "You don’t know how many times I regretted having been so drastic, back then. I regretted many things in these years."

John stepped toward him.

"Me too, but it doesn’t matter now. If you think that I can be the person who can make you happy, then I want to be, because I've already told you, that chance to be happy doesn’t last forever and before you know it, it's gone. And I don’t want to run this risk anymore."

John held out his hand and waited for his move.

Slowly Sherlock placed the violin in the case and took a step toward him, resting his hand on his.

"It's not gone yet," he said, and his voice was trembling slightly.

"Thank you," John murmured, and pulled him into a crashing hug, “And forgive me, for I hadn’t see.”


	23. 23.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 23\. “Yes. We do have to wear matching Christmas sweater, and no, it does not look stupid, it looks cute!”  
> Johnlock - Angst and Fluff - Rating G

Sherlock took the violin from his case and placed it under his chin: he had no ongoing investigation at the moment, but he still needed to think.

Something in the relationship between him and John was changing. Imperceptibly, slowly, but the signs were there, and he had noticed them: John hadn’t any date in a while with some random women known at work or on Tinder, even if he had the opportunity more than once.

He rarely went out with his former comrades, who often invited him to the pub, preferring to stay home and do nothing, basically.

Finally, Sherlock no longer remembered an investigation without John’s presence at his side: he changed his work shifts at the clinic just to be there.

Besides, there were the looks that John occasionally threw at him from time to time when they were at home, for no apparent reason; there were indulgent smiles in front of the consequences of a failed instead of the exasperated sighs of the past; and John made him use his laptop without protecting it with a password anymore.

As if John had decided to cross that invisible line that qualified their relationship to explore a new territory, something that Sherlock wanted, too, but didn’t dare to do, for fear of breaking a hard-won balance.

And then there had been John's request that morning: "Tonight there's a Christmas party at Scotland Yard, and we'll go together."

He had used these words precisely.

Together.

Like he wanted to officially go there as a couple.

Could he dare to hope?

 

The shop assistant handed him the bag with a smile and John returned it: he felt sure, he was making the right choice.

His feelings for Sherlock had never been just friendship, from the beginning there had been something unique and special between them, which had survived intact over the years, despite all they had to face.

However, only recently John had the courage to talk openly with his therapist about it and, with her help, he had looked inside himself, giving those feelings their real name.

He had also begun to work hard on himself, on his problems with rage and violent reactions, and only now that he was certain he would never raise a finger on Sherlock again, he felt ready to take that step.

A small step, perhaps, but his therapist had suggested him not to rush, and John agreed: the relationship between him and Sherlock was too important to risk ruining it with a wrong move.

They would start from the basis, like any other couple: going out together, to the restaurant or, as that evening, to a party, though no longer like friends, but like a couple.

The gift that John had in the bag was an obvious symbol of the change.

John was pretty sure about Sherlock’s feelings for him: even that morning, when he had told Sherlock about the party, he had seen him smile hopefully. But he still wanted to talk to him first to be sure and let him know he didn’t want to pressure him.

Unfortunately, a broken train of the Tube partially ruined his plans, and when he got to Baker Street it was already very late, he just had time to take a shower and to talk to Sherlock before calling a cab.

He climbed the stairs and saw Sherlock put the violin back in the case, more reason to be sorry for being late: he loved to hear him play.

"Sorry for the delay, but..."

"The Tube, of course."

"Yes, indeed. I take a quick shower, then I want to talk to you about something before going to the party," John said, putting the bag on his chair.

"What's in there?"

"It's part of what I want to talk to you about. Can you wait five minutes?"

But Sherlock was too curious, and telling him not to do something was like inviting him to do it, so he opened the envelope and lifted its contents: two identical white sweaters, with red collar and cuffs, and a large elf hat drawn on the front.

Two identical sweaters.

Identical as the suits they wore at the wedding of John and Mary.

Something on his face had to betray his thoughts, because John became uncertain.

"Don’t… don’t you like them?"

"They're identical, and they're ridiculous!" Sherlock hid his feelings behind his usual irritation, and John thought he had understood: the sweaters offended his aesthetic taste, just that.

"Yes, we’ll wear matching Christmas sweaters, and no, it doesn’t look stupid, it looks cute! Just give me time to take a shower and I'll explain: in the meantime take off your jacket and wear yours, okay?"

John ran into the bathroom and Sherlock's hands tightened the rough wool that pricked his palms.

He had been a fool, had misunderstood everything, as he always did when it came to sentiments: John saw him in the same way as before, just as a friend, like when he had been the best man at his wedding, nothing else.

Nothing changed.

And if lately John appeared happier, it was because he had found a woman, only he hadn’t introduced her for fear that Sherlock would scare her, like it had happened in the past.

Maybe he would meet her that night at the party.

Yes, for sure: John had bought those sweaters for this reason: to introduce his best friend to her.

And Sherlock would have to shake her hand and pretend to appreciate who, once again, was about to take John away from him.

History would repeat itself, perhaps with less dramatic tones, since there weren’t many ex-assassins in London, but everything else would have been the same: John who spoke incessantly about how fantastic she was and in the end he decided to marry her, another marriage to organize, and he again impersonating the role of best man.

No, he couldn’t do it, not again.

 

"Sherlock, are you ready? Sherlock, where are you?" John asked coming out of the bathroom and not finding him.

The two sweaters were still resting on his chair, along with a hastily written note:

_"I'm sorry, John, but I can’t take that role again."_

Initially John felt heartbroken: he thought that Sherlock had guessed his intentions and was telling him that he wasn’t interested in having a romantic relationship with him.

Then he read the message more carefully: _again._

Again?

Why did Sherlock write those words? They had never been a couple, so what role was he referring to?

There was something he couldn’t grasp, something extremely serious, for making Sherlock run from Baker Street in a hurry, but what? Why did two stupid identical Christmas sweaters trigger that reaction?

Two identical sweaters.

Identical.

Again.

Finally he understood.

"Oh god... god, I'm an idiot."

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his fingers: when he had bought the sweaters, he hadn’t thought about his wedding, as he didn’t think about Mary anymore, but that had been the only occasion when they dressed with matching clothes.

Instead, Sherlock had immediately thought of that.

John only hoped he hadn’t unintentionally unleashed a serious crisis: he had to find him and explain himself, and he knew exactly where Sherlock had taken refuge.

Regent's Park wasn’t far from Baker Street and Sherlock liked to go there, especially in winter, because it was very cold and there was few passers-by, so he could sit there in silence for hours, without being annoyed.

In fact, John found him on a bench in a remote corner of the park; in his hands he held a packet of cigarettes, fortunately still sealed.

Sherlock showed surprise when he saw him, and even more when John sat next to him.

"It's late," he observed, looking at his watch. "The party at Scotland Yard is already begun and she'll be waiting for you."

"Sherlock, you misunderstood," John said quickly, "there's no she. Those sweaters are for us."

The detective showed an imperceptibly relief in learning that there was no new girlfriend, but he scratched the film of the cigarette pack with the thumbnail.

"So you bought the sweaters as a friendship gift?" He asked, evidently confused.

John scratched an eyebrow.

"No, not really. I thought you knew: matching Christmas sweaters are something typically... "

"Yes?"

"Couple-ish, here…” John muttered, blushing slightly. “And that's why I took them, to ask if you wanted to take this step about us. I thought things were going well between us lately and that it was the right time."

At those words, Sherlock let the pack of cigarettes slip from his hands and turned suddenly towards John, who was smiling with confidence, then, in an unusual rush of enthusiasm, he wrapped him in his embrace.

"I suppose this is a yes," John chuckled in his coat.

"It is. However, John... "

"Yes?"

"Those sweaters are really horrible, I'll choose them next year."

"Okay okay."


	24. 24.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 24\. Having your first kiss with ______ on New Year’s Eve.  
> Johnlock - Teenlock - AU Balletlock - Enemies to lovers - Rating T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coppelia, or the girl with enamel eyes, is a classic ballet from 1870.  
> The plot: Coppelius is a magician who created a mechanical doll, Coppelia, and he wants to bring her to life. No one has actually seen Coppelia in the village, but everyone believes she is the magician's daughter.  
> Swanilda and Franz are engaged, but one day the girl sees Franz sending a kiss to the window of Coppelia's house, has an outburst of jealousy, and then decides to face his rival in love.  
> When Swanilda enters Coppelius's house, she discovers that Coppelia is only a doll and when she hears Coppelius coming, she hides.  
> Franz too enters the house shortly thereafter and Coppelius narcotizes him by offering him some wine: using magic he would steal Franz's life and infuse it into Coppelia, but Swanilda has replaced the doll and enchants the magician by dancing, then wakes Franz, they flee and get married.

Until then, John and Sherlock had crossed paths a few times at Mrs. Hudson's dance studio, but they didn’t know each other.

They couldn’t have been more different: John took modern dance classes, mainly hip hop and reggaeton, he had appeared as a dancer in some music videos, and he didn’t like classical ballet.

Sherlock instead was a ballet dancer, his natural habitat was the theater, and he didn’t have a great opinion of modern dance: the rare times he had arrived early to the lessons, the frantic rhythm of bass and drums coming from the studio had made him shake his head with disapproval.

Their lives would continue to run on two parallel rails without meeting, had it not been for a balmy idea of their dance teacher.

One day of September, after the summer break, Mrs. Hudson gathered the boys of both courses to announce that on New Year’s Eve there would be a dance recital.

In itself, it was a good idea: many producers looking for new talent watched the recitals of the city's dance schools, but there was a problem, and Victor raised his hand to tell the teacher: "Modern dance and classic ballet are different, how can we reconcile them?"

"The ballet that I chose is Coppelia, a classic, but revisited in a modern way, there will be steps and dances that all of you know how to perform."

 

After the class, Victor and Sherlock walked towards the train station.

"I think it will be chaos," Victor muttered, still unconvinced, and Sherlock nodded: a classic ballet, graceful and refined, wasn’t suitable for the impetuous modern dancers.

"Those elephants will ruin everything."

"Excuse me?" Barked an angry voice behind him: it was John and he wasn’t happy with Sherlock's judgment.

"Here..." Victor started, but Sherlock spoke again.

"I think you'll ruin the show."

"Sherlock,” his friend whispered, “We have to work together, I don’t think it’s a good idea..."

"What? You never saw our classes!" John shouted.

"I don’t need it: true dance is just the classic one."

"Nobody likes your stale and boring ballets anymore, and if someone will spoil the recital, that will be you dandies," John growled, going away.

"Oh my..." Victor sighed.

 

The idea of Mrs. Hudson to modernize Coppelia was original: the story would have been set in the near future, Coppelius would have been a scientist, Coppelia a robot with artificial intelligence, and Swanilda would suspected of Franz betrayal after seeing a picture of Coppelia on his social profile.

Choreography and music chosen by the teacher were brilliant, but the boys were perplexed by her choices for the main roles: Victor would be Coppelius, Irene Coppelia, Sherlock Franz and John Swanilda.

The two boys who would play the two lovers looked at each other, and then looked away, still annoyed.

However, beyond his personal grudge with Sherlock, John wasn’t convinced of his teacher's choice: he didn’t have any feminine traits, and couldn’t picture himself in the part.

"Mrs. Hudson, are you sure?"

"Without a shadow of a doubt, John: Swanilda isn’t the classic damsel in distress, she's the one who saves Franz in the end, she's the heroine of the story and I need a strong personality."

 

Rehearsals began the following week: the first times they focussed on finding a homogeneous dance style for everyone; it wasn’t easy, but in the end Mrs. Hudson's bizarre idea turned out to be brilliant, and the ballet came to life.

Later, they focused on the interactions between Sherlock and Irene and those between John and Victor, which were many. Irene in particular was very good at interpreting the sensual Coppelia who, in Swanilda’s mind, coveted her Franz.

Problems arise when the protagonists started working on the two main pairs.

Victor and Irene, although belonging to the two different dance schools, worked hard to be good together and their creator/creature interaction was good.

The real tragedy was Sherlock and John; they were disharmonic and awkward, always wrong, their movements weren’t coordinated and ended up hindering each other: each danced on his own, ignoring the other as much as possible.

John made up with improvisation where he had gaps in technique, and this infuriated Sherlock, who instead knew how to reproduce perfectly the most complex steps, and expected to find his partner in certain positions, but John was elsewhere.

Unfortunately, for the success of the ballet, the two of them had to work together, or it would have been a total fiasco, and it was already December: only four more rehearsals, and then they would go on stage.

One day, after his class, Sherlock went to protest to his teacher.

"It doesn’t work, you see it too, you have to change mine or John’s role."

"Sherlock," she answered calmly as she drank a cup of tea. "There's a very specific reason why I want you two to work together."

"Is it not just to annoy me?"

"Sherlock,” she admonished him, “Remember when you were discarded at the last audition?"

Sherlock clenched his fists at his sides: he remembered it very well. He had been the best, all the other dancers had made mistakes, he hadn’t, but in the end he hadn’t been chosen.

"And remember what one of the judges told you?" Mrs. Hudson continued.

"It’s not my habit to listen to idiots."

"He told you that your dance was technically perfect, but it didn’t have a soul. John, on the contrary, was recently discarded at an audition for having made technical mistakes."

"It doesn’t surprise me."

"Sherlock, I made you dance together because I think you have something to learn from each other and you have the potential to work well together."

Sherlock left the dance studio and complained to Victor, who was waiting for him sitting on a bench.

"Sherlock... I know you and John don’t get along, but couldn’t you try, for the sake of the recital? You are both very good, it’s just that you are uncoordinated."

"Are you comparing him to me?"

"I went to see him during the modern dance class: he's good, Sherlock. Of course he's very different from you, but I think you should see him."

Sherlock snorted, annoyed, but it intrigued him that John had attracted the attention of a good dancer like Victor.

A few days later, he hid next to the security exit and waited: the modern dance class hadn’t started yet, but John was already on the floor; he turned on an old boombox and positioned himself in the middle of the room, crouched on the ground.

When the music started, he hit his fists on the ground, rolled on his back using some breakdance moves and lay down, remaining on the ground for a few moments, as if someone had kicked him, then jumped up and put his arms in front of his face, like he was facing an invisible enemy.

One of the most difficult things in ballet was to tell a story that the audience could understand, but in this case Sherlock had no difficulty imagining it: a man, crushed by the adversities of life, who doesn’t give up, gets up and fights with all his strength.

At one point, John also included some caporeira moves in his dance, which conveyed a strong energy; the most extraordinary thing was that it was all improvised, John instantly decided how to move, letting himself be inspired by the music and relying on his instinct.

Sherlock was transfixed: it was impossible to look away from those movements, and he was ashamed to have judged him so lightly.

_ "He's amazing," _ he thought. " _ How did I not see it before?" _

When the music ended, John heard a door slam somewhere.

"You has a special fan," Irene said, amusedly, as soon as she stepped on the floor.

"Who?"

"You're not the only one doing extra workouts," she replied, but didn’t want to tell him who she was talking about, so John decided to stay at the studio to find out.

After the classical ballet class ended, the lights were still on, and Sherlock returned on the floor.

Obviously, he could be only his rival.

_ "You know Watson, if you stopped thinking of him like an enemy, maybe the recital would have a little chance of success," _ suggested a humble voice in his head.

Sherlock brought a leg over his head, flexed his back like a bow, balancing only on the tip of the other leg's feet, and remained in that impossible position for so long that John found himself holding his breath.

When the music began, Sherlock threw himself into the air like a spring, performing a perfect jeté, then he executed a series of figures, always balanced on his toes, and John's face contracted into a grimace: he almost felt pain for him.

Entrechat, emboité, fouette... Sherlock jumped and whirled without pause through the room, performing perfect movements, then he went into the farthest corner, took a short run and threw himself into the air, pirouetting.

_ "He is crazy! He will break an ankle!"  _ John thought, convulsively clutching the door jamb.

Instead Sherlock landed gracefully, turned and performed a series of risky cabrioles to return to the corner of the room.

John was impressed by the mastery that Sherlock had of his body. He had always held prejudices against classic ballet, he thought it was boring and that it belonged to the past, but now he was ashamed: he never thought about the physical exertion that it required, or how much the dancers had to train to make such complicated figures.

The music ended and Sherlock stood still, catching his breath, then sat on the ground and took off his dancing shoes; his fingers were bandaged, but the bandages were spotted with red.

"Oh god!" John exclaimed, stepping forward: he couldn’t avoid it, when he saw someone who was hurt, he had to intervene. His mother called him "my little doctor."

Sherlock started when he saw him.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you," John said, "but your feet are bleeding. Is there anything I can do?"

"There are gauze and ice in my bag."

"I'll be right there."

"There's no need to fret like that, it happens when you put all your weight on your toes."

John sat down in front of him and medicated his feet.

"I had no idea. I'm sorry I’ve belittled classical dance," John murmured, placing his hand on his ankle.

Sherlock blushed and looked away.

"John?" he mumbled.

"Hm?"

"Today I saw you dancing, too, it was a beautiful dance, very engaging."

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry for the things I told you: I theorized before I knew the facts, it was a big mistake on my part."

"Not all your judgments are wrong, you know? I would pay gold to have your technique."

Sherlock giggled.

"Do you find it funny?"

"No, ironic. As I watched you dance, I was deeply envious of your improvisations: I would never do that, I have to study every step before working on a ballet, and I was told that my interpretation is cold."

"In short, it seems we have something to learn from each other."

"That's what Mrs. Hudson told me."

"Are we still in time? The dance recital is in less than a month."

"We need to work more on our steps, it’s clear that once a week is not enough. Would you like to meet here every night?"

John stood up and held out his hand to help him get up.

"Yes."

The two boys shook hands and smiled.

 

The next night, when John entered the studio, Sherlock was already leaning against the bar, loosening his muscles, and John took a few moments to observe him: thin, pale, with rebellious curls that fell on his forehead, he looked almost like an otherworldly creature. Now that he looked at him without hostility, he realized that he was a beautiful boy.

Sherlock noticed the presence of John in the mirror: the boy was barefoot and shirtless, already muscled for his age, perhaps too much for a ballet dancer, but he perfect for modern dance. Perfect in more than one way, he thought, as John advanced with confidence on the parquet.

He dismissed that inappropriate thought and scolded himself.

"Do we want to get down to work?"

"Get ready," said Sherlock with an equally confident smile, "I'll make you sweat."

Sherlock wasn’t joking, he was inflexible and made him repeat the steps ten times, until he did them perfectly, but he gave good advice to correct John’s mistakes.

But above all, left behind their respective prejudices, the two boys found an immediate harmony, and their couple dance worked perfectly: movements, steps, interactions, everything came naturally, as if they had danced together forever.

 

One evening, it was John who came to the studio before Sherlock. He turned on his boombox, improvised a few steps of rock 'n' roll to warm up and, after a pirouette, he found himself in front of Sherlock, who looked at him, admiringly.

"That's what I envy of you. How do you do?"

"I let myself be inspired by the music. Have you ever tried? "

"It's irrational."

"Yes, it is.” John tilted his head to one side, “Is this that troubles you?"

"Yes."

"Have you never do something crazy? Something decided on the spot?"

Sherlock shook his head, expecting John to laugh at him, but the other boy went to look for something in his gym bag.

"Let's try this way."

John approached Sherlock with his iPod and selected a playlist, then brushed a lock of hair from his ear and pressed in one of the earphones, but when he withdrew his hand, he was almost embarrassed: he didn’t imagine that Sherlock’s hair was so soft and that it was so nice to touch them.

"What should I do?" Sherlock asked, and seemed uncertain, almost lost.

John cleared his throat: "Yes, here... close your eyes, don’t think."

"It's difficult."

"So is a Pique Tour, but you taught me that. Relax, focus only on the music, follow the rhythm."

Sherlock obeyed, listening to the notes, and John laid a hand on his side.

"Let the music guide you, follow it."

Still keeping his eyes closed, Sherlock began to move his head and shoulders and then his hips.

"Very well, like that."

John picked up the other earpiece and asked Sherlock to open his eyes again, then guided him through a series of figures and movements, then walked away and let him go on alone.

When the playlist ended, Sherlock looked at him with shining eyes.

"Thanks, John."

"It has been a pleasure," he replied.  _ "It has been really a pleasure to dance so close to you," _ repeated a voice within him.

 

Sherlock and John continued their training every day, and in a short time they became also good friends.

When they showed up at the following rehearsal of Coppelia, the other dancers expected a disaster, as usual, but were speechless to see how they were working well together.

After the class, in the locker room, Victor pinched Sherlock on the arm.

"Ouch! What are you doing?"

"Check that someone didn’t replace you with a cyborg. Apparently you changed your mind about John Watson."

"Yes," Sherlock admitted. "You were right, he's a great dancer, really extraordinary."

"Ooh, you really changed your mind," Victor chuckled, winking, and quickly dodged when Sherlock threw his gym bag at him, but he didn’t miss that Sherlock had blushed.

 

At the end of the last rehearsal before the recital, Victor was really happy to see that the two leads dancers had found the right harmony on the stage and out, but Irene, behind him, muttered doubtfully.

"What's up?"

"Doesn’t it seem to you that their interpretation lacks passion? In Coppelia, Swanilda is jealous of Coppelia, even if, in the end, Franz loves only her, but those two aren’t yet like lovers, they are stuck."

Victor shrugged. "Maybe. What are you suggesting to do?"

"I have an idea."

The girl approached Sherlock and handed him a towel.

"Thank you."

"I got an idea and I wanted to talk about it with you: I would like to ask Mrs. Hudson to change the ending of the story."

Behind him, John listened carefully.

"Here,” she continued, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. “I noticed that we dance very well together, so how about if, in our ballet, Franz chooses Coppelia and runs away with her?"

"No!" Exclaimed Sherlock and John in unison; their eyes met an instant, then they both looked away, embarrassed.

"The-the audience wouldn’t understand," Sherlock stammered.

"Right: Swanilda and Franz are the heart of the ballet," John added, taking a bottle of water from the bag.

"Mmh, are you sure?” Irene asked, touching Sherlock's face, “I'm not just talking about this recital, but in general terms. I'm sure we would do great things, the two of us together."

John left the studio, slamming the door, and Sherlock retreated in annoyance, heading for the locker room.

Victor gaped at Irene, shocked.

"Excuse me, is this your great idea, spreading discord when they finally found the right understanding?"

"Wait and see."

"Yes, I'll see a disaster," Victor grumbled, leaving the room.

John took a cold drink from the vending machines: he didn’t even know why he felt so angry. After all Irene was right, she and Sherlock were splendid when they danced together. However, since they had started training together every evening, John had felt that the place next to Sherlock belonged to him and him alone.

Eventually he managed to name the unpleasant feeling that was scratching his rib cage: jealousy.

"Shit..." John muttered.

Everyone had gone home, but the light in the studio was still on.

Sherlock, shirtless and wearing only leggings, was working on some steps of the ballet, and the vision didn’t help John at all: he liked Sherlock, and couldn’t bear the idea that someone would take his place by his side.

"You don’t have to listen to Irene's words,” Sherlock said, when he noticed him. “She just wants to annoy you: we are perfect together."

"Do you really think that?"

"I only say what I think, you should know by now."

"What are you working on?"

"The scene where Swanilda finds out that Franz has a picture of Coppelia on his phone."

"Wait then, I'll help you with that," John said, pulling off his shirt and shoes.

Sherlock was dazed by the view, then cleared his throat. 

"I think you should be more energetic and jumping towards me instead of taking three steps: it would convey better the jealousy Swanilda is feeling."

_ "Right now I have no problem being jealous of you,"  _ John thought, and did as Sherlock had suggested.

"Franz, on the other hand, minimizes Swanilda's worries," John said.

The two moved on the parquet, close, looking into each other's eyes.

"But he's really flattered by her attentions," Sherlock replied.

"Really?"

"Yes. Franz loves Swanilda, not Coppelia."

Sherlock put a hand on his chest, and John stopped, stroked his side, just above the elastic of the leggings, tilted his head slightly and leaned towards him; Sherlock blinked quickly and leaned to John, too, but at the last moment, he pushed him away and ran out of the room with his face on fire.

John passed his hands several times in his hair. God, god, god, what the hell was he thinking?

He had thought that Sherlock's was interested in him, but perhaps he had misunderstood everything, and now he had created a terribly embarrassing situation just one day before the recital. He was a jerk.

He changed and headed for the train station; along the way he continued to write and erase a message for Sherlock, without sending it. Yet he had to apologize in some way. Or maybe it was better to talk about it the next day? Supposing that Sherlock would come, something that John wasn’t sure about.

Shit.

"John!" Sherlock's voice reached him when he was already on the train.

He rolled down a window and leaned over: Sherlock had pursued him wearing only his leotard.

"Are you crazy? Go back in the studio, you'll catch a pneumonia!"

"I have to talk to you about what happened." Sherlock's face was red, and John didn’t believe it was just because he ran, he was terribly embarrassed, and it was all his fault.

"There's nothing to say, I've been an asshole and I'm sorry."

"No, it's not you... I didn’t run away because of you."

"I don’t know there was someone else in the studio who tried to kiss you."

"You see, I... I’ve never... with anyone... I didn’t know what to do, but I wanted to..." his voice faded to a whisper, and John had to lean out the window to the waist to hear him.

"Did you panic?" John asked incredulously: Sherlock, always so cold and professional on stage, did panic at the idea of kissing him?

"Shut up," Sherlock said, pouting, and John decided not to embarrass him further. But God, that was cute.

"So,” Sherlock continued, all awkward, “If hypothetically the circumstances and the right time reoccur, I think we could try it again."

The train started to move and John leaned forward so much that Sherlock feared he would fall down.

"Absolutely!” he shouted and then threw him his coat. “Wear this, please."

Sherlock grabbed and put it on, hiding his face in the collar and inhaling John’ scent.

 

The next day all the dancers arrived early at the theater for the final rehearsal before the recital, so John and Sherlock didn’t have a moment to be alone and talk, but just before the curtain raising, Sherlock touched John’s hand.

"Let's do our best."

"Sure," he replied, stroking the back of his hand with his thumb.

The performance of Sherlock and John was amazing, and even the other dancers were very good, no one missed a step, but all the attention of the audience was focused on the interactions between Franz and Swanilda, engaging and passionate.

After the wedding scene, which closed the ballet, Franz lifted Swanilda into his arms, though it wasn’t planned, and when they eyes met, they were no longer the characters they played, they were just John and Sherlock.

The applause of the audience was deafening, the other dancers lined up for the bow, but John and Sherlock didn’t notice, lost in a world where only the two of them existed.

Sherlock placed John gently on the ground and his eyes slid for a moment on his lips, before looking away.

He thought about it, he had thought about it all night long, the idea of feeling John's lips on his was exhilarating.

_ "Have you never do something crazy?" _

He reminded of John's words, when he taught him to let go and follow his instincts.

No, he had never did something crazy, but he wanted to do it now.

John understood, circled his shoulders with his arms, and kissed him in front of everyone, first gently stroking his lips, then catching them firmly between their own, and opening his mouth to taste Sherlock’s flavor.

The applause of the audience turned into an agitated chatter, but not even that was enough to separate the two boys, so in the end Mrs. Hudson signaled to close the curtain.

"See," said Irene to Victor, "my little push was good, and not just for the recital."

"Yes, the problem now will be to separate them," Victor laughed.


	25. 25.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 25\. Free space  
> Johnlock - First Time - Virgin Sherlock - PWP - Rating E

Having their first time on Christmas Day.

It’s a Harlequin romance cliché, it should be dull and ridiculous, and make him roll his eyes.

Instead there is nothing trivial in this moment, in the two of them sitting on the bed, still dressed, kissing, in John who occasionally looks at him in the eyes to ask silently if it’s all right.

It’s a gift, the most beautiful gift that could receive and give to John.

When Sherlock told John that he wanted him, but that there had never been anyone before him, neither man nor woman, John slowed down, let him set the pace of their new relationship, waiting for Sherlock to overcome the fear of letting go and surrendering to the love he feels for John.

But John is hungry, hungry for him since they exchanged their first kiss, now a month ago. Sherlock sees it in his eyes, perceives it in his accelerated breath, feels it in his sweating palms resting on his shoulders.

And Sherlock is ready; he has put aside the fear of showing himself vulnerable, of plunging into unknown waters, and wants nothing more than to make love with John: nothing could convince him to leave that room.

"Do you want to stop? We can stop, if you want," John says, but his hoarse voice is a plea to go on.

"No."

"Sure…? Mph..."

Sherlock interrupts his protests with a kiss, his big hands around John’s head, and John gets lost in the softness of his lips and in the sensual caress of his tongue, but there is a small part of him that doesn’t stop thinking that Sherlock is distracting him, that he does it only because John wants it, because he is afraid that John will leave him, or an equally ridiculous reason, and that he really doesn’t want it.

After all, Sherlock has lived most of his life without feeling the need to have sex: what has changed now?

"You" Sherlock whispers, barely detaching his lips from John’s to answer his silent question, then returns to kiss him, takes his left hand and brings it between his legs.

"I want you, John. Is it so hard for you to believe?"

John's throat is too dry to articulate an answer, so he just shakes his head, giving Sherlock a tender smile. Perhaps he understood: what there is between them has little to do with sex and much to do with love.

John squeezes him lightly through his pants in a silent promise, making him jump, then grabs his shirt, sliding it from his shoulders and throwing it somewhere behind him.

Sherlock's skin ripples with excitement under John's gaze and a moan leaves his lips as John’s hands caress his arms and his chest, up to his collarbones, linger on his neck, slide down again and then surround his back. John's lips join his hands in a meticulous exploration of the most sensitive points of his body, making it extremely difficult for Sherlock to free John from his vest.

When they are both bare-chested at last, John pushes Sherlock on the sheets and lies down on top of him, eliciting a surprised moan from him: Sherlock had no idea that the feeling of a naked, hot body on his skin could be so exciting; he becomes impatient, almost frenzy, because it's not enough, he wants to feel John with every inch of his body, and he’s shaking with desire under him as he tries to lower John’s trousers and underpants at the same time.

"Message acknowledged," John laughs against his neck, and a pleasant vibration spreads throughout Sherlock’s body, accompanied by a revelation: sex can also be light and fun.

John gets up and ends up undressing, then he’s back on the bed, and quickly gets rid of Sherlock's pajama pants.

John's blue eyes take a long look at his body, and his lips bend up in a silent appreciation, while Sherlock’s ones open to accommodate his fast breath.

"Come here," Sherlock whispers, raising his arms, and the next moment they are rolling on the bed, intertwined from hands to ankles.

Sherlock doesn’t show any shyness in moaning and sighing when John kisses down his neck and gently bites his shoulder, and he shouts, arching his back, when he sucks a nipple, tormenting it with his tongue, while he pinches the other one between his fingers.

John’s other hand slides down, between Sherlock’s body and the mattress, squeezes voluptuously a buttock, and tickles the delicate skin of the thigh, then John lifts up on his elbows and kisses him again on the lips.

Sherlock rubs his pelvis against John’s, searching for a friction he desperately needs; his lips are almost insensitive because of the kisses and his whole body seems to have turned into a erotic area.

So far, John has devoted himself exclusively to his pleasure, but Sherlock wants to reciprocate, and knows exactly what to do: John has a particular fantasy, ever since their relationship has begun, or perhaps long before then. 

From the way he sometimes looks at Sherlock’s lips, it’s clear what he’s thinking about, and, over time, that fantasy has rubbed off on him, too (when John wasn’t at home, he did some experiments about it, because he didn’t want to be totally naive).

Sherlock rolls on him and John looks at him curiously, trying to guess his next move, and when Sherlock kneels between his legs, his eyes widen.

"Oh god..." he murmurs with a faint voice when Sherlock grabs his erection: he didn’t have the courage to ask him, but that is his forbidden dream: to feel those plump lips on him.

Sherlock licks the throbbing cock slowly, from the base to the tip, lingering on the frenulum until John startles, while he strokes his testicles with his hand, and it’s so glorious that his fantasies disappear, compared to the reality of it.

At the umpteenth passage of Sherlock's tongue on his glans, John covers his eyes with one arm, but his lovers pushes it aside.

"No John, look at me," he whispers, before diving his head between his legs.

John's back arches against his will, pushing his penis into Sherlock's warm, moist mouth.

"Sorry, sorry..." he gasps, falling back on the mattress.

Sherlock moans and strokes his side to reassure him that it’s not a problem, and continues to suck and caress him with his tongue, using his hand where his mouth can’t reach, and John doesn’t resist, he must sink a hand in his curls and pull, even for only a moment.

"Stop!" he begs him after a few minutes.

"I thought you liked it," Sherlock murmurs, leaning his chin on John’s thigh.

"I don’t want to come like this today."

"Mh, another time, then."

John pulls Sherlock to him, kissing his lips again, and sliding a hand between his legs: Sherlock is hard as stone and is dripping on the sheets: he’s reaching his limit, too.

He makes him lay down on his back, takes a tube of lubricant from the nightstand and, as he struggles to open it with shaky hands, Sherlock draws the outline of his hip bones with his thumbs, humming appreciatively.

John unscrews the tube and squeezes the clear liquid between his fingers, then brings Sherlock's left leg over his shoulder.

"Now, this part isn’t sexy at all, but it's necessary."

John knows how much Sherlock can be impatient, but he wants him to be perfectly prepared, he would never forgive himself if he ended up hurting him too much.

"I know."

"But you have to promise me that you will stop me, if you find it too painful and unpleasant. Remember that we are not bound to do anything: sex must be pleasant and if it is not-"

"John,” Sherlock interrupts that flow of words with a shadow of exasperation in his voice. “In these days I’ve experimented with myself, to understand how it is, and you don’t have to worry: I like it, and I will like it even more when you are inside me."

John freezes and holds his breath, cursing silently, because those words and the resulting image in his mind seriously risk to make him come on the spot.

"Not good?" Sherlock asks, jokingly.

"Far too good, you idiot," John says fondly, leaning forward to kiss the tip of his nose.

He carefully prepares him, masturbating and massaging his testicles when he starts to use three fingers, rapt by the vision of Sherlock lying in front of him, his hair disheveled on the pillow, his red cheeks contrasting with the pale skin, his heavy eyes watching him adoringly.

"I love you," John says impulsively. 

It’s the first time that he says those words, and perhaps the moment, which sees him with three fingers inside Sherlock, isn’t exactly the best one, but this is the effect that Sherlock has on him: he brings to light sides of him that not even John knew he had; Sherlock overcomes his barriers, his emotional constipation that so much damage has caused in the past, and wrenches the truest truths from his soul.

"I love you" he repeats, absolutely sure of his words.

Every residual fear of Sherlock is swept away by those few syllables. If until now he has always been reluctant to let go, to feel and accept sentiments in his life, to give all of himself to John, it was because he feared that one day John would get tired, decide that he wasn’t worth the effort, or that he wasn’t so important. And he would die: his heart, vulnerable and exposed, wouldn’t survive the pain.

But now that fear no longer exists, because those words are important to John, he would never pronounce them lightly, if he didn’t believe it.

"I'm ready."

"Okay." John retracts his fingers, kisses him on his knee and pushes slowly inside him, ready to halt at the least sign of suffering, but Sherlock shows none, even if he is almost overwhelmed by all the sensations he’s feeling, especially when the tip of John's cock touches his prostate. He arches his back with a cry, and contracts almost painfully around him.

"Okay?"

"Again!"

John bends over him and smiles on his skin.

"In a moment."

John pushes his feet against the mattress and pushes again, until he’s completely inside him; Sherlock's legs are around his waist, the nimble and thin fingers pressed between his shoulder blades, and there is no more space between them, there are no more distances, there is only a growing heat, passion and lust.

"You're beautiful, god, you should see you, god Sherlock," John whispers against his temple.

Sherlock thinks that John is actually the beautiful one, with his spiky, damp hair and the pleasure that deforms his face, but words escape him.

They find their rhythm, at first gentle, then harder, faster and feverish. Sherlock's sobs break the silence of the room and merge with John's groans.

Sherlock’s cock, pressed between their bodies, is hot and damp, and twitches against John's stomach, who brings a hand between their bodies and grabs him in his fist.

"AH! Yes, yes... Ah... J-John... "

Sherlock is wonderful in the moment of ecstasy, and John can no longer restrain himself, crushes him against the mattress with all his weight and comes inside him.

Slowly, he regains consciousness, inaling their mixed smell, listening to Sherlock’s heartbeats and to his own syncopated breath.

Sherlock is muttering something against his forehead.

"What?"

Sherlock takes a deeper breath, "I love you too. You know, don’t you?"

John kisses him on the lips.

"Yes, I’ve always known."

Sherlock clings to him and closes his eyes; he looks extremely serious and focused, and John doesn’t resist, he must ask why.

"I'm creating a room in my Mind Palace to remember this moment whenever I want, in every single detail."

John rakes a hand through his hair.

"If I say I find it very romantic, do you get angry?"

"No, not anymore now."

"Anyway, you know there will be other moments like this, right?"

"Then I will create a room for each of them, or a new Mind Palace, if necessary."

John chuckles, rolls on his back and drags Sherlock with him.

"I hope so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of my Advent Calendar. I wanna thank every wonderful people who stopped here, reading, leaving a kudo or commenting. I didn't think my little story would reach so many people out there, and I'm overwelmed with joy.  
> It is not always easy to create a story for every prompt, I've never have enough time and, as usual, I like some stories, but about other ones I think I could do better. But, overall, I hope I have given you some pleasant moments during these holidays.  
> Thanks again and, if you celebrate it, Merry Christmas!


End file.
